Circle the Wagons

"For every time when you're not able…

For every breath of heart unstable…

If you call I will be listening, a little call from you to me…

It's no trouble, no trouble at all

You are no trouble to me

And you will never be."

~Maria Doyle Kennedy, "Stars Above".

*Author's Note: Mental casting—for Brighid Adair, think Alex Kingston. Because really, if the world's falling apart, who better to have on your side than River Song?*

London, England.

"I'm sorry, I have to go," Emily was back at the table in the pub, grabbing her jacket and her purse from the chair. She opened her wallet.

"Ach," Sorcha waved away her money. "I said I was buying—"

"Emily, what's going on?" Anne's pale face was etched with worry. "You look ill."

"I'm—I've gotta go," she was fumbling now, her mind trying to battle the effects of too little sleep and too much alcohol as she tried to organize her thoughts into what she needed to do, what affairs she needed to get in order before leaving. "There's—something's happened with my old team at the Bureau. They need me."

"Wait, so...what? You're jetting off to America now?" Brighid's green eyes were wide with incredulity. She was on her feet as well now, "Emily, you can't—"

"I can and I am," Emily informed her curtly. And she knew that she could pull it off—she had plenty of vacation time saved up, and Clyde Easter had even gently suggested that she take a week off, now that the inquest was finally over. "Look, I have to go—I've got to make some calls, book a flight—I'm sorry, I'll text you all and keep you all in the loop as much as I can. But right now, I have to leave."

Anne merely nodded. Sorcha took a long draught of her drink, a sign that Emily took for assent. Brighid still hadn't returned to her seat, but the stare that she was giving Emily informed her that she didn't think this was the right decision at all.

With one last round of apologies and promises to let them know when she'd made it safely onto US soil, Emily left the bar.

She headed down the street, which was nearly deserted on this hour on a weeknight, sucking down the biting cold air in an attempt to clear her head.

Footsteps echoed behind her, quick and determined, and she knew their owner long before she turned to see Brighid charging down the sidewalk.

"Emily, you can't be serious," she was hurrying after her now, her naturally corkscrewed and riotously voluminous curls throwing their own rave to the double-timed pulse of her steps. She stopped abruptly once she reached Emily, holding up a hand to stop her American friend from replying. "However, if you are, let me take care of it."

"Wha…what?" Emily blinked—this was not the response she had been expecting.

"I know all the codes to enter your vacation time into the system, I have all the pilots on speed-dial—I can get your request paperwork sorted and I can get you on a private flight to D.C. within the next three hours," Brighid gave an easy flick of her wrist, as if dismissing the task for its sheer simplicity. Then she reached out, gently placing her hand on Emily's upper arm, her tone low and serious, "I know how you feel about your old team. I get it, I do. They're your family."

The tears that pricked in Emily Prentiss' big dark eyes were the only reply that Brighid needed. She continued softly, "They're important to you—and you're my friend, so they're important to me. I don't know what the devil's going on, but I know it would take a lot to scare you and make you react the way you did in there. I can't do much, but I can help you get there. So please, let me help."

"But—this isn't an Interpol case. You can't just acquisition resources to fly me—"

"How about we just try and see what happens?" Brighid forced a playful smile. She gave a slight shrug, "Live a little, Emiline. Take the risk. If anything happens, I'll be the one taking the rap. And I'm a very big girl who can handle a little bit of disciplinary action."

"You could lose your job."

"Emily, I'm a glorified accountant. It wouldn't exactly be the stuff of Greek tragedies. Now stop playing hard to get and let me take you home."

She should refuse. She should tell Brighid that she could handle it on her own—and truly, she could. But Emily Prentiss was tired of being the lone and independent ranger. Right now, her main focus was getting to Quantico as quickly as possible—and Brighid Adair could make that happen.

"Fine. But I will pay for the actual expenses out of my own pocket."

Brighid's grin widened, "Darling, I wouldn't have it any other way."

She looped her arm through Emily's, pulling her in the opposite direction. "Now, c'mon. I'm much more sober than you are, and I actually drove here—so I can drop you at your place before I head back to the office and work my magic."

"My very own fairy godmother," Emily joked.

"Drop the fairy and the mother, and you've got it about right."

Emily laughed. "No one can ever claim that you suffer from low self-esteem, Brighidalia."

Her friend grinned again, "We all have our strengths—mine is knowing how amazing I am."

Once they were in the car, Brighid took a moment to fiddle with her cellphone before plugging it into the auxiliary jack.

"If we're going to start an adventure, we must have the right theme music," she explained.

The second she heard the jazz horns erupt onto the speakers, Emily began to laugh. The song was so iconic that anyone could instantly recognize it within the first few notes.

"What? It's perfect," Brighid informed her, slipping into the light traffic as she turned up the music. Emily hummed in amusement, shaking her head at her friend's antics.

Brighid began singing along with Sam & Dave, belting out, Hold on, I'm coming…Hold on, I'm coming….

FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.

Adelaide Macaraeg delicately handed the thin plastic evidence bag to Jack Dawson—from underneath the clear protective cover, the list of addresses in Spencer Reid's handwriting stared back at him, as easily recognizable as it had been several hours ago when he'd first seen it.

For some reason, he'd almost hoped that it had changed. That it was somehow magically not what he knew it to be.

"When does this go out to the handwriting analyst?" He asked, more out a need to make some kind of conversation than actual curiosity. Macaraeg had been completely tight-lipped since her arrival back at the Academy. Granted, she'd been back less than ten minutes, and had spent most of that time finding this particular piece of evidence amongst the crowded contents of the evidence van.

"First thing tomorrow morning," she informed him. With a slight gesture towards the paper, she added, "Once you've finished with it, I'm taking back to the evidence lab to dust for prints and do some preliminary scans."

He gave a small nod of approval—that seemed completely in-line with the mental image he'd built of Macaraeg over the past few hours. The woman didn't believe in wasting a single second.

"Thank you," he turned and headed back into the interrogation room, where Spencer Reid was still waiting.

Dr. Reid had lost his fearfulness, even his anger. Now, with each new piece of evidence that Dawson brought to him, he approached it with genuine curiosity. Either he was an innocent man truly trying to solve the mystery of why he'd been framed, or he was an actor of the highest talent.

"Care to explain this?" Jack slid the plastic evidence bag across the table.

Reid leaned forward to study it, not actually touching it with his hands. "Looks like a list of addresses."

"In your handwriting."

"Is that what a certified handwriting analyst says?" Now Reid looked back up at the older man.

"Not yet. But what if that's exactly what he says?"

"Well, seeing as I have no idea what these addresses are for, or how they connect to the actual case, I don't know."

"These addresses are for beauty salons. And hardware stores." Dawson let those two pieces of information sink in, watching the changes in Reid's face as he realized the implication.

Now the young doctor became cautious. "Where did you get this?"

"Benjamin Fuller gave it to us." Dawson still hadn't told Reid that Fuller was dead—and technically, the statement wasn't an outright lie. Though of course, if Spencer Reid was the man who murdered Fuller, then the news wouldn't come as any big surprise, and all of this would have been one big charade, on both their parts. Right now, Reid behaved as if he truly thought Fuller was alive. And again, Dawson wondered if it was truthfulness or an impressive level of deception.

"So a man who is the prime suspect in a bombing just handily keeps a scrap of paper—supposedly written by me—to flash at you the second that he's questioned?" Spencer arched his brow in incredulity. "I have to admit, if I were involved in a clandestine plot to attack the federal government, I really hope I would have chosen better conspirators."

That wasn't the best response, but it did get a small smile from Dawson. Reid continued, "I want to speak to this man. I want to know how he came across this—"

"Are you denying that this is your handwriting?"

"Categorically, yes. I will admit that this looks like my handwriting, but I did not write this—"

"Are you sure?"

"Eidetic memory, remember?" Reid sat back, motioning toward the door. "I want to speak to him. He obviously chose to frame me for some reason—I want to know why."

Dawson looked down at this hands for a beat, then returned his cold blue eyes back to his suspect. "Dr. Reid, Benjamin Fuller isn't available for a chat. We found him dead in his home—suicide at first glance, but closer inspection showed that he'd been murdered. Implying that he did, in fact, have some kind of accomplice or co-conspirator who used him as a pawn and then disposed of him, once his usefulness had run its course. So right now, all we have is this dead man's journals, and scraps of paper he'd kept—obviously as some kind of insurance to protect himself, although we see how well that worked. Which means that you're the only one who can explain how you two know each other, and what's really going on."

Something in Dawson's tone had changed. He wasn't combative, or aggressive, or even mildly amused, as he had been in previous stages of the interview. He was almost pleading, as if he were searching for something. His eyes remained zeroed in on the younger man's face. Spencer Reid didn't look relieved. He looked like a man whose ray of hope had been extinguished. A man mourning the loss of the one person who could prove his innocence, or a man upset that he'd been found out?

"I…I don't know this man," Reid confessed quietly. "I don't know how or why he thought he knew me, or why he wanted to implicate me in this. I just…I don't know."

Dawson merely nodded. Then he rose to his feet.

"Sit tight, Dr. Reid. We've got a few more questions to answer tonight."

Heathrow Airport. London, England.

"You've already called Mika Kimathi."

"Yes."

"You put your final reports from the inquest into the system."

"Yes."

"You left food out for Sergio."

"Check." Emily Prentiss gave a curt nod as she rummaged through her bag one last time, making sure that she had everything she needed. Brighid stood next to her in the small building outposted on the private side of the airport, where they were waiting for Emily's pilot.

True to her word, it had been a record-breaking two hours and forty-five minutes since they'd left the pub—Brighid had gotten Emily back to her flat, sobered her up a bit, and then had gone back to the Interpol office to pull strings of amazing proportions. Emily made a mental note to never get on her friend's bad side—with the kind of power that she apparently had, Brighid Adair could do some serious damage, if she so chose.

The darkly-tinted glass door swung open, and a weathered man stepped in. He was trying to look unhappy, but the amusement twinkling in his eyes gave him away. "Bri, you owe me, big-time."

He was Polish, judging by the accent. Emily guessed that he'd been quite the looker in his younger days—wheat-blond hair, steely blue eyes, chiseled features. Time hadn't been particularly kind, but he still had the air of a fallen Robert Redford. He seemed familiar.

"What else is new?" Brighid offered with a light roll of her eyes. He smiled, as if in agreement.

"Your mother's well?"

"As always. Illness and old age are much too frightened by her to try and attack," Brighid was smiling widely now. Emily had met her friend's mother, and could attest to that statement—Mrs. Adair seemed formidably ageless. The Englishwoman gestured towards her, "This is Emily Prentiss, my friend—"

"And the lady running the London office," the pilot added with a slight measure of respect. "Dav Bosko. I've had the pleasure of flying Mr. Easter around this world many times—and you, too, once, but I don't think you'll remember me. It was many years ago."

Emily offered a smile and shook his hand. "I thought you looked familiar. Thank you for helping us, on such short notice."

"Ah, anything for our girl," he nodded towards Brighid, who was still smiling warmly. The blonde had a reputation at Interpol for being a bit irritating (a reputation which she seemed adamant to uphold and protect), so Emily was slightly surprised to see someone who obviously found her friend so charming. And Brighid was being charming, with the quiet adoration that a girl might have for her favorite crazy uncle.

Dav Bosko motioned back outside. "It will take me a little while to get everything going, but we'll leave within the half-hour. At this time of night, the runway's empty, so we shouldn't have to wait for clearance. I'll call Bri when it's time to board."

Emily nodded, giving one last smile and thank-you before the pilot went back outside.

"How much does he know?" Emily asked, more out of curiosity than concern. Yes, she was leaving in the dead of night, but it wasn't exactly a clandestine operation.

"He knows where he's going and who he's taking," Brighid gave a curt nod. "That's all he needs to know—and all he wants to know. He knows better than to ask too many questions in this business. That's what's kept him in this business for so long."

She turned her full attention to her friend, slightly adjusting Emily's scarf like a mother readying her child for the first day of school. "Right. You're sure you've got everything?"

"Yes." Emily looked up at the ceiling. Everything was done—well, except for actually speaking to Clyde Easter. He'd uncharacteristically not answered his phone, so she'd left a voicemail. She was certain that when he did listen to it, the reaction would not be pleasant. She turned her worried eyes back to her friend, "And you're sure about this? You're sure you can handle the potential wrath of Clyde Easter?"

"Oh, he's a pushover." Brighid waved the thought away.

"Have you ever met the man?"

"No. But he is a man. Which makes him, by definition, a pushover," she gave a toss of her curls, offering a sly smile. "As they all are, when it comes to my infinite charms."

Emily laughed. Due to her usually aggravatingly ebullient and at turns bitingly caustic personality, Brighid was generally not classified as a charmer.

"Besides," Brighid gave a slight shrug. "What's done is done, and this, my darling, is most certainly done. You're paying for it, so it's technically not costing the agency a dime, and we have dozens of other contract pilots, should the need arise. I haven't deprived Interpol of anything—well, except your fantastic leadership skills and heart-warming presence. But that will be remedied soon enough, too."

Emily nodded again, biting her bottom lip as she turned her attention to the tarmac outside.

"Hey," Brighid's voice was a gentle as the hand on Emily's shoulder. "It's going to be alright."

And Emily Prentiss closed her eyes and wished with all her might that it would be so.

FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.

Jack Dawson sat back slightly, opening the thin manila folder in his hands to stare at its contents for a moment. Spencer Reid watched him intently—it was like watching a magician prepare for the final step in a card trick. Whatever Dawson had in that folder, he knew that once he mentioned it, things could get crazy, very quickly. As if they weren't crazy enough.

"You should know that we also checked out the email—the one you sent to Linnea Charles," Dawson informed him.

"The one Linnea Charles claims I sent," the younger man corrected.

Now the sheet of paper inside the manila folder came out to play. Dawson set it on the table, turning it so that Spencer could read it. It was a series of screenshots.

"It's here, Dr. Reid. That's your outbox, from your Bureau email account. There's the outgoing message to Linnea Charles. And here's the email itself, with the interesting little tagline which says it was sent from your phone."

For once, Dr. Reid was speechless. His mouth opened, then shut again. He wanted to protest, to explain, but his mind was still trying to figure out how this had even happened.

"But that's not the most interesting part," Dawson continued easily. "The really, really fascinating detail is the time-stamp."

Reid's eyes went to that particular location on the screenshot of the email.

"It was sent before the bomb went off, according to what we've gathered," Dawson's voice was quiet. He didn't move a muscle as he simply watched and waited.

Dr. Spencer Reid looked like a child who'd lost his mother at the mall—pale skin, wide eyes, mouth open in a mixture of fear and confusion.

"I…I don't know what to say."

"Is that a confession?"

"No." The lost boy disappeared. Dr. Reid's eyes focused on him again, angry and defiant. "It's me saying that I don't know how someone set me up like this. You can check the security feed—there are cameras in the bullpen, you can probably see me, in the conference room, reading over a file—and not touching my phone at all during that time."

"Oh, I'm sure we'll find you giving the performance of a lifetime," Dawson conceded nonchalantly, crossing his arms over his chest. "But that doesn't mean you didn't write the email earlier, and then set it on a delay, allowing it to be sent at the moment when you knew you'd been on-camera, establishing an alibi."

Spencer Reid wanted to laugh hysterically at the accusation. These people obviously didn't know him and his relationship to technology. As usual, everyone assumed that his IQ meant he also designed computers in his spare time.

Damn stereotypes.

Instead, he focused on solving what parts of the riddle that he could. "Earlier, you mentioned that I forgot something. That I overlooked a simple element."

Now Dawson became wary. Would an innocent man ask such a question? Or did that fit better with the image of a man who thought himself a mastermind, who wanted to know just how his plan had failed, how his intelligence had been bested?

"Fuller's insurance policy," Dawson decided to lay his cards on the table. Reid looked at him blankly, so he elaborated. "The journals—you knew they existed, you had to. Where else would you have gotten the piece of paper to use as a suicide note?"

Again, same blank look.

"But if you knew about the journals, then you had to know that they mentioned you—your buddy was keeping a written record of your plans, and you didn't think to take them with you, after you murdered him? I mean, you could have at least burned them or buried them or thrown them in the Potomac."

Now Spencer Reid merely raised his brows. "Doesn't quite seem like the actions of a guilty man covering his tracks, does it? Seems like the actions of another guilty man framing an innocent one."

Jack Dawson smiled. He had to give the man that point, to be sure. And at that point, they'd reached a temporary impasse.

"You'll be staying in custody for the night, Dr. Reid. We'll find a place to keep you comfortable—I only ask that you don't try to hatch some kind of great escape."

Reid held his hands open, "I'm an innocent man. I have no reason to run."

Another unreadable smile from Dawson. "Somehow, I knew you were gonna say that."

Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.

"OK, you guys have to be like really super quiet because Henry is asleep in my bedroom and I don't want him to wake up and freak out because you're all here," Penelope Garcia informed the four behavioral analysts on her doorstep, who were not allowed inside until they each promised to be as quiet as possible.

Of course, Derek Morgan wrapped her into a big bear hug, which she half-heartedly reciprocated. He pulled back, looking like such a hurt puppy that she couldn't help but reach up and give his cheek a reassuring pat.

"Long day, lover boy," was the only explanation she offered. It wasn't a lie, technically.

He simply nodded—not because he entirely bought her excuse, but because he knew that now wasn't the time to make a scene.

"So, what do we know?" Hotch immediately went back into investigator mode.

"Alright, here's what we have so far." It took Penelope a little longer to get back to her in-home work station, no thanks to her bum leg and corresponding crutch. "I've done a total run-down on Benjamin Fuller—thank you, Sir Hotch, for your sneaky sneaky skills on that one, by the way."

Hotch, of course, had heard the original suspect's name during Dawson's interrogation of Reid—and in all honesty, that had been part of his reason for wanting to watch the interview. Everyone thought he was trying to be supportive, when really he was trying to figure out as much of the puzzle as possible—because that was how he could best support his team member, by using every skill at his disposal to find the actual UNSUB.

"And what've you got, Sweet Thang?" Morgan added the nickname on purpose, as if trying to remind her of their connection.

It didn't seem to work—her response was flat, almost clinical, "Nothing, nada, zip. This guy doesn't do online anything, which is kinda strange when you consider that most people his age are very plugged into the world of the interwebs. Other than that, he looks like a textbook-agent in the Cyber Crime Division."

"That's…fourth floor?" Rossi squinted as he tried to remember. He used to be very proud of his ability to accurately map out every section of that building, the place that had been his home for so many years, but there'd been so many changes and moves and department re-namings that he'd lost his internal index.

Penelope continued, "He doesn't have any glaringly obvious reason for starting a personal vendetta against the Bureau—doesn't even have a parking ticket to his name, which you gotta admit, is a little bit impressive."

She held up her finger as she turned back to her computer, "Also, let me add my intense desire for our bad guys have more original names. Do you know how many possible Benjamin Fullers I had to wade through?"

"Yes, looking for people named Ra's al Ghul would've certainly been a shorter list." Callahan commented with a slight smile.

Penelope didn't turn back around, but the hitch in her shoulders implied her surprise. Derek Morgan looked at her in wonderment as well.

"My husband's a comic book nerd," she admitted easily. "I've absorbed some of it, over the years."

"You and Jack could be really great friends," Hotch informed her in his usual deadpan manner. His son was, like most boys his age, definitely steeped in a world of superheroes and evil genius villains. "Though right now, he's more into X-Men."

"Dude, I'm fluent in both DC and Marvel," she grinned. "We could talk shop all day long."

Derek Morgan was still looking at her as if she'd possibly been swapped out for a robot. He was wearing a slight grin, and something told her that he was using every ounce of self-control he had not to let out some teasing remark about her apparent nerdiness. She merely pointed at him (don't start).

He grinned in response. He didn't have to say anything. They both knew the score.

"So Fuller's squeaky clean," Rossi returned the matter at-hand, pushing down a wave of irritation at how damn nonchalant his team seemed at the moment. "Or was squeaky clean. Rule-follower, above and beyond. So what pushes him into going in the complete opposite direction?"

"Compulsion. Zealotry," Callahan supplied, easily slipping back into agent-mode. "He's the type that thrives on the system—he swears his life to it. The only thing that can break that kind of loyalty has to be something he'd see as a betrayal—something big, like really big."

"But what, exactly?" Hotch asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"He wasn't denied—I mean, he never applied for any kind of promotion," Garcia supplied. For a brief moment, Hotch wondered when the techs back at Quantico would realize that Garcia was piggybacking into their system, but then he remembered whom he was dealing with. This woman wasn't running laps around the rest of them, she was hovering over them in a stealth craft, completely off their radar.

"Neither did Curtis," Rossi pointed out. He tapped his temple, "It's all in the mind. What did he think was going on?"

"I still don't see how any of this could ever be linked back to Reid," Callahan announced, setting her hands on her hips. "I mean, Reid has zero to do with anything like that. And he's been with the BAU for years, so it's not like he took somebody's place. And even if he had, they waited a helluva long time to take action."

"Cruz mentioned that there was some kind of manifesto," Hotch admitted quietly. "However, when I suggested that Fuller was simply stalking Reid, he seemed very certain that it wasn't that."

"Maybe this Fuller guy was stalking Reid—but his obsession reached a point where he simply believed that he was actually interacting with Reid on a physical basis," Morgan gave a slight shrug. "Obsessive types can very easily have problems distinguishing reality from fantasy—maybe he imagined that Reid was telling him to blow up the FBI. Perhaps even sending secrets messages, signs that only Fuller could interpret."

Hotch gave a slight shake of his head. "The level of precision and planning needed for this attack suggests a man who was fully grounded in reality."

"So Reid was implicated on purpose," Callahan reiterated. She ticked off the facts with her fingers. "His email was used to send a message to his deceased girlfriend's sister, further tying him to the crime."

"Which reminds me," Hotch turned his attention to Rossi. "Jordan Strauss—"

"I know, I know," David held up his hands in a gesture of defeat. "I got her voicemail, once they gave me back my phone. I've already called her back and let her know that everything was alright, that she can stop playing detective now."

It was a slight lie, telling Jordan that they were all OK now, but a necessary one. She was already too deeply entrenched in this case, and Dave would be damned if he got one of Erin's kids into trouble with the Feds (Sweet Jesus in short-pants, she'd rise up from the grave to murder him if he ever allowed such a thing to happen—frankly, he was slightly surprised that he hadn't already been visited by her vengeful ghost). Jordan had also told him exactly how she'd come across the information, and he'd felt a pang of regret for Carrington and what would happen to her whenever Cruz found out. However, he couldn't shield Carrington from the consequences—and he also got the distinct feeling that the secretary had been fully aware of what she was doing when she took the risk in the first place.

"I need you to call her back," Hotch's voice was quiet. It was obvious from his expression that he didn't approve of Jordan Strauss' involvement in the least.

Not that David would have approved, either—if Jordan had actually let him have any say in the matter.

"We need to find Linnea Charles," Hotch continued. "Jordan claimed that she didn't know where Linnea was—but if she does know, she's more likely to tell you than me."

Rossi nodded in agreement, pulling out his cellphone and stepping into Garcia's kitchen (not that it made much of a difference, seeing as it was an open floor plan).

"Hey, Dave." Jordan sounded sheepish, so childlike that he had to remind himself that she was a full-grown adult.

"Hey, Dani, I need your help," he tried to keep his voice as open and gentle as possible.

"I, um—but I thought I wasn't supposed to help anymore?"

"I know. But Dani, we need to find Linnea Charles. And right now, you're the closest link we have to her."

"I told Agent Hotchner—I don't know where she is. That was part of the plan—she's supposed to remain unreachable, on purpose. So that if anyone looked into our phone calls or texts, they could see that she wasn't responding to me—it was meant to keep me safe, too, in case the FBI wanted me to help bring her in."

"Well, that backfired a bit, didn't it?" Rossi couldn't help himself.

"I know. I'm sorry. I didn't think this would—well, I guess I just didn't think. That's all."

"It's alright, kid. This is way out of your realm of expertise. No one's expecting you to make all the right moves—"

"No, they're just expecting me to do the one thing that I can't do—the one thing that could actually help."

"Well, let's see what we can do. Did Linnea tell you where she was going, who she was going to see?"

"No. I know she went back to her office, but left for some kind of meeting—at least that's what the secretary said. Other than that, I have no clue."

"And the secretary didn't tell you where she was going, or who she was meeting with?"

"No. I'm not even sure it had anything to do with this case, even."

David Rossi was fairly sure that it did—Linnea was a reporter, and he didn't have to know her personally to know the type. To top it off, she was personally invested. She'd latched onto this story with both hands, and she wouldn't let go until she had answers. He was sure of that.

Earlier that day. John Adams' Office. The District Times Editorial Suite. Washington, D.C.

Linnea could instantly see why Johnny Adams had shown a slight sense of distaste at the mention of Todd Wilkes, the man who'd written the piece about the bombing—the man who somehow knew the exact moment of the big boom, an important and crucial detail.

If John Adams was the slightly-awkward-yet-affable Mr. Rogers of the newspaper world, then Todd Wilkes was the flashy and dashing Clark Gable—he was dressed to a tee, sleek and stylish with just the right dash of devil-may-care swagger. He smiled like a man who knew just how charming his smile was, and every move he made showed his obvious delight in being adored.

On principle, Linnea wanted to dislike him, for Johnny's sake. But Mr. Wilkes was a very easy person to like—because underneath the flash and dash, there was a man who genuinely seemed to care.

"Just call me Todd," he offered another winning smile, enthused with a warmth that seemed entirely authentic. Linnea briefly wondered why he hadn't gone into television reporting—he certainly had the bone structure for it.

"Just call me Linnea," she returned easily.

Whatever disapproval Johnny might have felt towards Wilkes' writing abilities or style certainly didn't show now—the older reporter seemed to understand that they all had their parts to play, and he was content with his own role in the workings of the world.

"So, you guys wanna tell me what all this hush-hush secrecy's about?" He glanced at both of them, still smiling in anticipation.

Linnea held up the newspaper. "How'd you know what time the blast went off?"

"I had the great luck of finding a witness who could also tell time," he offered smoothly. He was still smiling, but the open friendliness had been slightly deterred. He'd played this game enough times to sense when it was about to enter unpleasant territory. "Though I'm not sure why it matters to you—you obviously have a better insider than I do."

"Well that's where this gets interesting," Linnea admitted, shifting in her seat to look back at Johnny—after all, he was the one who'd truly wanted to know. She took a moment to study both of the men, mentally weighing whether or not to share the next bit of information—though knowing all the while that she really didn't have a choice, "You see, I did get an email, from an FBI insider….but apparently, it was sent to me at 7:59am."

Johnny was still looking at her in complete bewilderment. She placed the newspaper back on his desk, keeping her finger on the first line of the article as she gently pushed it closer to him.

"Oh my land," he leaned forward, his voice barely audible. "Five whole minutes before the explosion."

"Only if Todd's source is absolutely positive about that time frame," she turned back to Wilkes, who was equally shell-shocked.

The younger man held up his hands, "I can't swear to it—yeah, the person gave me the time, but she didn't—I mean, I didn't really take much time to truly verify that statement, because if it was off by a few minutes, who would know?"

She simply stared back at him, answering the rhetorical question with her mere presence.

"Holy shit," Todd leaned forward slightly, as if he'd lost the air in his lungs. "I mean, this could—you're both thinking what I'm thinking, right?"

"That you need to go back to your source and double-triple-quadruple check that time frame, without so much as breathing a word of suspicion to anyone else, including your source?" Johnny returned drolly. "Yes, that's exactly what we were thinking."

"Give me just a minute," Todd was on his feet again, hurrying to the door. "I've—I think I've got the number at my desk. It'll take just a second."

He was off like a shot. Once they were alone again, Johnny Adams turned his full attention back to Linnea, "Which brings us to the more important question—why the hell are you sitting in my office instead of giving this information to the FBI?"

"Because I needed to know for sure, Johnny."

"Bullshit. It's called a tip, you don't have to know for certain, you just have to know something."

"There's a lot more at play here—"

"I dare say there'd better be."

"Oh, come off it, Johnny. If I'd left it to the Feds and they'd come here to question him, what do you think would happen? What reporter would actually give up their source?" Linnea gave a dismissive wave of her hand. "I had a much better chance coming here, going mano-a-mano with Wilkes—which is exactly what happened, in case you weren't just in the room—"

"I'm old but not forgetful, Linny." He returned with a little bit of bite. "And I'll kindly remind you that with my old age comes many more years of experience in this field than you currently have. Don't try to be the hero here—that stuff's for dime-store novels and television dramas. This is real life."

Good lord, he sounded like her father. She resisted the juvenile urge to roll her eyes, taking the admonition with as much grace as she could muster.

Todd Wilkes re-entered the room, a scrap of paper in his hand. He didn't look particularly hopeful. If anything, he looked ill—he'd been playing fast and loose with a source, thinking it wouldn't come to light and hoping it wouldn't ever matter, and yet, here he was.

"The source was anonymous—she said she was too high up, didn't want to risk losing her job. Didn't give a name or any kind of callback number—but I had our switchboard trace the call, and this is the number they got."

"So…what? We just call her back?" Linnea was unsure of how to proceed. She'd assumed that Todd had some kind of rapport with his source, a way of getting back in touch that didn't arouse suspicion.

"I can, if that's what you want," Todd offered easily. He obviously wanted to help (and like any good reporter, he was curious to see how the story ended), but he also didn't want to take any kind of initiative that would seem too forward to Linnea. She felt a small measure of respect for him in that small act of deference.

"Yes, please do."

"Let's see where the rabbit hole ends," Johnny murmured, leaning forward again as he and Linnea silently watched Todd dial the number on his cellphone.

He gave a slight shake of his head—no answer. Still, he left a voicemail. "Hello, it's Todd Wilkes, from The District Times. I got your number from our operator—I hope you don't mind, but I just have a few more questions to ask you."

He left his number and ended the call.

"Well, what now?" He asked, almost deflated by the abrupt dead-end.

"She won't call back," Johnny decreed quietly, his voice edged with disappointed certainty. "Those types never do—too easily spooked."

He returned his attention to Linnea, "Which means you need to go to the FBI. Now."

Linnea nodded in agreement. However, she didn't leave right away.

"I…uh, I have the distinct feeling that I'm about to be in way over my head," she admitted. "There's…there's more that I haven't told you, and I'm the only one who knows—well, me and one other person, a Jordan Strauss. I think—I think someone else needs to know, just in case."

"Just in case of what?" Todd's face skewed into a look of concern.

"I don't know. Just in case, I guess." She looked back at Johnny, the one she truly trusted. "I realize that when it comes to letting people into the circle, I don't have a lot of options. So before I leave, I'm telling you everything, just…just to make sure that I'm not crazy, I guess—and to make sure someone else knows."

It sounded so hysterically dramatic, and yet, the absolute sincerity behind Linnea's words kept Johnny Adams from berating her for being sensational.

"Alright then," he opened his hands in a welcoming gesture. "Lay it out for us, Lin. Tell us what you know."

An hour later, Linnea Charles had explained as much as she could to Wilkes and Adams, and they'd even put together a sort of contingency plan (there were so many occurrences of the phrase just in case, they'd probably beaten some kind of world record). Still, at least all three of them parted ways feeling some measure of reassurance.

It was ridiculous. It had to be. Things like this didn't happen in real life. Not to people like her. But then again, she never thought she'd be a woman whose sister was stalked and brutally murdered, whose mother died way too young, who'd left her glowing dream life to settle back down two miles from her parents' old house to care for her aging father. So maybe this did happen to people like her.

Her heels clunked loudly in the cement-encased parking garage, the artificial lights giving the whole place a sickly yellow hue. It was still light outside, but you couldn't tell it from down here.

There was an SUV parked next to her car. A woman in workout gear, complete with a running toboggan, was busily cramming items into a large duffle bag.

At the sound of Linnea's footsteps, she looked around, almost as if caught off-guard.

"Oh, hello," she offered a smile, almost as if she was embarrassed by her reaction.

Linnea offered a smile in return—after all, she'd gotten pricked by that same vein of fear numerous times. How many abduction stories started in underground parking garages?

As Linnea moved around to her car, the woman spoke up again, "I'm sorry—but you…you look familiar to me. Do you work for the economic section?"

Linnea shook her head, "No, I don't work here at all. I'm a reporter for The Washington Daily—maybe we've met at an event?"

"Maybe," the stranger simply smiled.

Linnea gave a slight smile of her own and turned back to her car.

The woman took a step towards her, and that's when Linnea knew that something was wrong.

The arm around her chest was quick and strong, pinning her left arm to her side. The woman's other elbow was firmly pressed against Linnea's right upper arm, disabling her from reaching up and pulling away the rag that was clapped against her mouth.

The sickly-sweet smell forcing its way through her nose and down her throat was enough to make her gag.

Chloroform. She'd never smelled it before, but a lifetime of film and television told Linnea what was happening.

Except she didn't pass out right away, like they did in the movies.

However, she immediately felt the fight leave her limbs, entirely against her own will.

"There, there," the stranger was panting, obviously struggling to keep her hold on Linnea's body, which was slowly slumping to the floor.

The hand was gone from her mouth, but Linnea still couldn't do anything. She felt herself being dragged, saw the wildly changing scenery as she was lugged into the back of the SUV, but everything seemed so distant, so far removed from reality. Like the dreams you had between waking and sleeping, hazy and half-remembered and never fully there.

"Now, you sleep, darling." The stranger's voice was different now, something not the same…she should know….

A prick, in her arm—just like getting a shot.

A swirl of darkness. One last heavy noise.

Then nothing.

"Those who play with fire should expect to be consumed by it."

~Katie Macalister.