A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing the last chapter. Pretty sure the T rating covers it, but the language is a little harsher than normal in this one. Some answers might be starting to emerge though so I hope you enjoy it :)

/
/

The popping sound, following each squeeze of the trigger, echoed around the empty warehouse and filled him with a sense of satisfaction. After taking the time to line up each fresh target in the perfect position, he slid a new clip into the magazine of his gun, and stepped behind the imaginary line he pictured across the floor. After just a moment to adjust his aim, he hooked his finger around the trigger to complete the exercise.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

The empty cans clattered to the concrete as each round hit dead centre, and the calming effect of the exercise continued.

"Shit!" he exclaimed, in a sudden burst of irritation, as the sixth shot went wide and embedded itself in a wooden crate, several feet from the intended target.

"I wouldn't worry about your aim if I were you," the man responsible for his ruined streak chuckled.

"You shouldn't creep about like that," he snapped in response, rapidly emptying his clip into the remainder of the cans. Thanks to the disruption, one remained on the workbench. "I might have shot you."

His remark was met with another chuckle.

"You wouldn't shoot your best friend, would you?" the man grinned, pulling him into a playful head lock.

"Piss off, Damien!" he muttered, shrugging him off and kicking the cans across the floor as he stormed away.

"What is with you?" Damien exclaimed, the teasing grin disappearing from his face. "Connor!" he yelled, when his friend didn't look back.

Connor spun back around, his expression both angry and unsettled. The relaxation his make-shift shooting range had provided was now long gone.

"This isn't a joke. They'll kill us when they find us."

"If," Damien corrected. "If they find us. And that isn't going to happen because we'll be out of here as soon as the shipment's dealt with."

Connor didn't look reassured. In fact, a sheen of sweat spread across his furrowed brow as he thought of what lay in the future. They were in over their heads. Following Doyle around and running errands was one thing; taking on his work, and his enemies, was quite another.

"You were the one that got involved," Damien continued. "If you'd just let them deal with the hookers and the kid then there'd be no trouble."

"Lauren can take care of them," he replied, as he had every time someone had reminded him that he'd brought trouble on himself by interfering. "She made sure Declan was okay."

Damien shook his head. He was growing tired of what the man was willing to do to prove his loyalty to their dead boss, and to the girl he had a crush on.

"Lauren isn't real - she's a Fed. And you don't owe anything to the whore that sucked you off."

"But it's Doyle's kid," Connor persisted, ignoring the dig about Marissa. "Blood meant something to him."

"And look where it got him," Damien remarked. If Doyle hadn't been so fixated on his son, he'd still be alive. They'd be stupid to make the same mistake.

Connor wasn't paying attention and had returned to kicking the cans against the wall. He didn't want to hear what Damien had to say, his head was buzzing, and his unfocussed mental state wasn't helped by the fact he hadn't slept in over a day. He'd been waving a gun around since he was a teenager, making empty threats to prove he could handle himself. But until yesterday, he'd never shot a living thing. While he'd been shaking since he pulled the trigger, and his death warrant had almost certainly been signed by the action, he didn't regret what he'd done.

With a glance at the tattoo on his wrist, he remembered what this was all about.

Lauren would come through, the child would be safe and, wherever he was, Doyle would be proud.

/
/

If he hadn't just spoken to her doctor, Derek wouldn't have believed Emily was fit to be leaving the hospital. When he returned to her room, she was sitting in the chair he had occupied the previous night, looking as pale and fragile as when he'd left her that morning. The doctor assured him that after twenty-four hours under observation, and with no tests or scans showing anything of great concern, there was no reason she needed to be in the hospital to recover. But he was still wary about taking her away.

"You don't need to look so worried," she told him, raising her eyebrows at his frown. "I'm okay. Apart from being desperate to get out of here!"

It didn't take much to give away that her smile was forced, but it showed more animation than she'd managed since she arrived at the hospital.

"Are you sure you're not in too much pain?" he asked. Leaving the hospital meant a dramatic reduction in her level of pain relief, and that provided him with a separate concern.

"I'm fine," she insisted, holding up the bottle of pills which were replacing the morphine. "Still drugged up to my eyeballs."

He couldn't make himself laugh, even though he knew it was the reaction she was aiming for.

"My doctor says that it'll barely hurt after a few more days," she insisted.

Derek still looked unconvinced.

"Let's get you out of here," he responded, settling for not actively expressing his doubts. It was the best he could manage.

"Where are we going to go?" she asked, as he threw her bag over his shoulder and helped her up from the chair. After agreeing to the trip to Chicago, she'd left all the plans in his hands. The thought of leaving, when so much was still unsolved, still made her uneasy.

He sighed. Their lack of a safe "home" wasn't the ideal situation for Emily to get the rest her body needed. And while it definitely wasn't an option for that night, he also wondered if their apartment would ever feel the same again.

"I've booked us into a hotel, and then we can fly to Chicago tomorrow," he explained. "If you feel up to it," he added. While it was technically safe for her to fly, it wasn't necessarily going to be comfortable.

She nodded.

"That's fine," she agreed, realising that she couldn't have cared less about where they were going to stay. All she wanted was to wash the remaining traces of blood from her hair and lie down somewhere than didn't smell like industrial strength disinfectant. Home, much like the other thoughts still circling her mind, wasn't a concept which offered her much comfort. What if they were making a mistake?

Derek, on the other hand, was doing a much better job of hiding his doubts, and his certainty was contagious. As he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and guided her into the hallway, she was reminded that, while they were running away, she was doing it for the right reasons.

/
/

Penelope returned to her office, carrying two mugs of tea, to find a very bored looking JJ scowling over the paperwork in front of her. Refusing to stay in her own office alone, while the others checked out the business address of EZ Repairs, she had set up camp alongside the technical analyst. To say she was unimpressed with Hotch's order for her to remain at Quantico was putting it mildly.

"You're sulking," Garcia accused her friend.

"I'm not," JJ muttered, barely glancing up from the report which detailed the events that had led to her getting shot. "I just think that there are better things I could be doing than this."

Penelope could understand her frustration at being left behind - it was a feeling she shared at times - but she for one couldn't disagree with JJ being kept away from the people who were likely behind her shooting. The way the agent sat unnaturally straight, with a hand resting against her ribs, made it clear she wasn't quite as okay as she made out. And, while she wasn't about to tell JJ, Garcia was glad her friend was temporarily out of the field.

"But you get to stay here. With me. There are some perks to that job!" she grinned, producing a bag of cheetos to accompany the tea.

"I'm not Henry; you can't bribe me," JJ insisted, though her disgruntled expression was fading slightly.

Garcia laughed. She knew exactly what bribes worked on each member of the team, and could even bring a smile to Hotch's face with just the right blend of coffee. As colleagues irritated at being left behind went, the cheese puff loving blonde was no problem at all.

"How do you do this every day?" JJ sighed, after the passing of a few more minutes, in which she had added her signature to the pages of the report and opened the bag of chips.

"Do what?" Penelope asked.

"Wait for news. It's driving me crazy not knowing what's going on."

The not knowing was one thing that Penelope would never quite be able to take in her stride. Her clock watching wasn't as obvious as that of her friend, but she knew exactly how long it had been since the others left the building. And she knew precisely when she'd start to worry. But she also had her ways to get around the problem.

"You get used to it," she shrugged, unconvincingly. "And it helps when you can access the security cameras outside the storage unit," she added, with a wicked grin.

JJ shot out of her seat and closer to the screen, her injury barely holding her back. She should have known Garcia didn't do patience.

"You could have told me!" she exclaimed, her gaze focussing on the slightly grainy image of her colleagues strapping on their vests.

"Got to keep you on your toes, sugar. Can't have my babies getting bored when they're in my care!"

JJ shook her head, as her friend adjusted the camera to provide a better view. If anyone could keep her distracted until everyone was back together, it was their very own technical goddess.

/
/

The vans parked outside of the storage unit matched the description Emily had provided, and Hotch, Rossi and Reid required no further confirmation to confront anyone who might be inside. The sooner they could get an insight into the world the case was centred on, the sooner they'd work out exactly who they were dealing with.

Hotch led the group, covered by Rossi, Reid, and a whole host of armed police officers, and knocked on the weather beaten door. When he received no response he announced himself, stepping back and drawing his own weapon. The silence was setting him on edge.

"This is the FBI! Open the door!"

For a moment he didn't think anyone was going to answer. He turned towards the two officers who were holding a battering ram, just in case it was required, but before he could give a signal, a key turned in the lock from the other side of the door.

As soon as the door swung open, the team of agents and officers rushed inside, prepared to overpower anyone lying in wait. The sole occupant, Mark Pearson, stepped back and raised his hands as though he was surrendering. But his expression told that he was going to be far from helpful.

"How can I help you, sir?" he smirked, directing his attention to Hotch, as soon as he recognised the unit chief from the news. "Our comprehensive small business coverage is available at very competitive rates if you're looking for something for the whole office."

I think we'll stick with our regular service, wise guy," Rossi responded, stepping forward and cuffing the man's hands behind his back.

"We have a warrant to search the premises," Hotch announced, holding out the slip of paper for Mark to view and managing to keep a lid on his irritation. It was a good job the more volatile members of the team weren't there.

"What for?" he asked, his apparent surprise lingering indecipherably between honesty and mockery.

"Firearms. Specifically, the one used in the shooting of a federal agent," Hotch replied. There was no doubt in his mind that they'd found their man and he wanted the smug bastard to know they were on to him.

"I think I read something about that," Mark said disinterestedly.

Rossi resisted the urge to slam his face into the wall. What could have happened if JJ hadn't been wearing a vest didn't bear thinking about, and the smirk that crossed the man's face after his flippant remark was causing the profiler's blood to boil.

"Search away," Mark grinned, enjoying the effect he was having on the agents. "I've got nothing to hide here."

The police officers fanned out, each taking responsibility for a different area of the unit. It wasn't too large and was seemingly filled with the tools and materials required to repair an assortment of electronic devices. Despite their efforts, no one was expecting to find any physical evidence, but now the BAU had something better to work with. They had an arrogant suspect, who couldn't help but provide them with the details they needed to profile those involved.

/
/

"Derek?" she called.

She was perched on the edge of the bathtub, with her feet dipping into the water, but couldn't quite work out how to get herself clean. She was still too light-headed to stand under the shower and too sore to lower herself into the tub. In a couple of days she knew she'd be feeling much better but she couldn't wait that long to rid herself of the lingering clinical smell on her skin.

Derek rushed into the room as soon as he heard her voice. He hadn't even put on the TV for the fear that he wouldn't hear her if she got into trouble.

"Are you okay?" he asked, stopping in his tracks as he saw she was completely naked. Of course she would be, but there was something about seeing her body that made him think more of the person who'd fall into bed with him at the end of the day, than the fragile woman he needed to protect. Then again, Emily Prentiss was never really in need of his protection.

The bright spotlights of hotel en-suite felt her feel even more exposed and she wrapped her arms around her torso, hating whoever and whatever made her feel like this around someone she trusted completely.

"Can you give me a hand?" she asked, fighting the urge to hold back every word and cling onto her dignity. "I need to wash my hair. And I can't get into the tub."

He controlled his expression so as not to react to her admission. This was the woman who had once thrown her back out hauling a mattress into their apartment, rather than accept any assistance. It had to be killing her to need someone to help her take a bath.

"I could join you," he grinned, trying to lighten the serious atmosphere and make her feel less awkward.

She smiled but shook her head.

"It's okay," she assured him. "But if you tell anyone, then this is the closest you're getting to me ever again!"

He chuckled, as she gave him a tired smile. Emily was in there somewhere.

"Come on then," he said, wrapping an arm around her and helping her into the water. "Let me show you just what a gentleman I can be."

She laughed, disguising her discomfort as the water stung an abrasion on her hip, and it wasn't long before the warmth around her started to have its intended soothing effect.

"Better?" he asked, noticing some of the tension leaving her body.

"Better," she agreed, as he tucked her hair behind her ears.

Standing up from where he had crouched on the tiled floor, he reached for the shower head, turning it on and running it at the far side of the tub until the water was warm.

"Let me know if it's too hot or too cold," he told her, turning the soft spray onto her dark hair. He used one hand to shield her eyes as he directed the water from the roots to the ends.

"You could have worked in a hair salon," she teased, as he reached for her shampoo.

He splashed the water into her face in retaliation, causing her to squeal and turn away.

"Oww," she groaned, having momentarily forgotten the inevitable result of such a sudden movement.

His hands quickly steadied her, as he apologised, but the burst of pain had already dulled to an ache, and she took her chance to soak his T-shirt.

"Truce?" he suggested, knowing that her playfulness was using up energy she didn't really have. He wished he could make her believe that it was okay to depend on him from time to time.

She agreed and he started to gently lather the shampoo into her hair, taking extra care not to apply too much pressure over the bruised areas.

"You're lucky you didn't need stitches," he remarked, as his fingertips skimmed the cut along her hairline.

Lucky was an understatement when he thought how grateful he was to have her beside him.

"I don't need to use conditioner; I can just get out now," she insisted, as he rinsed her hair, once again taking care not to splash her eyes or cause her any pain. Her unease at being incapable of taking care of herself had returned and she wanted it to be over.

"Relax, Emily," he soothed, leaning forward to press a kiss to her forehead. "Just let me look after you for once."

Sighing, she relented and let him continue.

"This isn't me," she mumbled, her voice a mixture of exasperation and upset.

"I know," he assured her, pausing to stroke his thumb across her cheek. "But it won't last long."

With a slightly tearful smile, she nodded in agreement. In a matter of days her body would be further into the process of healing and she'd be more like herself. It was just getting to that point that she wouldn't enjoy.

"Thank you," she murmured, taking hold of his hand.

He kissed her again - this time on the lips - and then paused to study her face. There was the slightest flush of colour in her cheeks and the wide, fearful look was gone from her eyes. If he ignored the bruising, then this was almost his girlfriend.

"You're going to be okay," he promised.