Author's note:

First and foremost I wanted to apologize for blurting out the first chapter of this story without so much as a greeting. It's been a while since I wrote fanfiction, and I'm sorta rusty—I'd forgotten about notes and disclaimers and stuff. So… to make amends:

Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds.

Secondly, I'd like to wholeheartedly thank my 3 reviewers and the people who added this story to their alerts. It meant a lot! While it's true you do mostly write for yourself, it's really encouraging to know people are reading (and hopefully liking it).

Thirdly, I have to admit that yes—I AM a slow updater. I couldn't possibly manage a chapter a day, the way some wonderful people do. But I'll do my best never to let it be this long again. Mind you, there were extenuating circumstances: work takes up 100% of my time on weekdays, I had to go out of town one weekend, and the next weekend we had a mind-blowing earthquake, so…

I'll do better next time. Promise.

2.

As Emily sprinted back to the house, heart in her throat, a mantra repeated itself over and over in her mind, please let Rossi be okay, please let Rossi be okay, please let him be okay. She wasn't sure she could take it if he'd been hurt because she'd left him—because they'd split up. Something you were never supposed to do. And all on account of some poor hungry kids…

She walked in on him snapping a pair of cuffs around Matt Culver's wrists. "Wha—?"

Rossi gazed at her mildly, one eyebrow slightly suspended. "He had his shotgun under the chair. Should have expected that—it went off when he grabbed at it. The slug went into the wall. No harm done."

"Oh." Almost giddy with relief, Emily was forced to grab the back of the nearest chair for support. It was mucky, and brought her back to her senses almost at once. Dave was marching the now meek and compliant Matt Culver out to the car—with the three tots, it would be a tight fit. "Wait, how are we—"

She was staring at an empty road. The car she had been sitting in not two minutes before was gone, tire marks on a dusty lane the only reminders it ever existed.

Dave's bewildered look matched her own, but she had no explanation for it. Only their arrestee had presence of mind enough to rumble out drunkenly, "Th' damn hell didcha do with m'kids?"

Morgan wanted out of this case. He couldn't remember ever wanting anything so bad in his life—except maybe to wring Carl Buford's neck. Which was weird, since there was no comparison whatsoever between offenses. Carl Buford had molested him, when he was young and vulnerable. All this guy had done was ogle his teammates and be an overall dick. Even so, there were a zillion places he'd rather be than in this god forsaken field under the smoldering sun, with this poor excuse of a sheriff spitting tobacco juice at his feet.

Get a hold of yourself, man. After all, it wasn't like he'd never had to put up with winning personalities like good ol' Sheridan here. Assholes like this were a dime a dozen—bigoted, chauvinistic pigs with the brain of a peanut. He had trained himself to dissociate, channeling his anger into a cool, detached sort of determination that actually helped him concentrate on the case. Sometimes it was even sort of funny—how petty and ignorant people could be. But this guy…

This guy was something else.

Focus, man.

"This where we found 'er," the sheriff was drawling. "Spread-eagled on the ground like a puppet. All clothes in place but bloody and dirty—like she'd been dragged around some."

"Blood trail?"

"Weirdly 'nuff, no. Just some bent grasses. Footprints in the mud. Stormed overnight."

Stormed overnight. That meant the footprints had come after the storm. So she'd been dumped in the early morning hours. According to the visiting medical examiner, Elizabeth had been dead about twelve hours when they found her. Her body had been discovered at about ten in the morning. She'd been missing since ten the morning before. And been killed at ten at night? So… where had she been during the remaining twelve hours? What was the UnSub doing with her all that time?

"Visiting ME said no sexual assault?" Morgan asked. He knew the answer—JJ had briefed them thoroughly before arrival. He just wanted to make sure.

Sheridan shook his head. "Same as th'others. Internal bleedin' from blunt force trauma—prob'ly fists. No scratchin', no bitin', no hair pullin'."

"Defensive wounds?"

"Plenty. Tissue under the fingernails. Sent it to Marietta for testin'."

"We should get it to Garcia right away." Morgan whipped the cell out of his pocket and had already pressed speed dial when Sheridan practically knocked it out of his hands. "Hey—what the hell?"

Apparently Sheridan had played nice guy long enough. For all the world he looked like a raging bull with his puny eyes, red facing and flaring nostrils. "I don't think we need to be sendin' anyone anythin'," he spat. "Folks at Marietta can handle it just fine."

"Chances are, Marietta's backed up," Morgan insisted—counting to ten in his mind and holding his peace for the victims' sake. "Garcia, our tech, is exclusively dedicated to this case—and she's great, man. She'll make a match before anyone else can."

"I said no. We don't need no damn chicano broad lookin' over our files."

Murderous steam rose to Morgan's head. Being an incompetent stubborn jerk was one thing, but dissing his baby girl? Who wasn't even here to defend herself?That was just the last straw. "She's not chicano and she's not a broad—she's a woman, and the smartest, most resourceful analyst you could ever hope to find. But, look—if you don't wanna solve your crimes that's fine with me. We'll just leave that DNA rotting at Marietta. Till they have time to get to it."

He rushed off toward the SUV, with the full intention of heading back to headquarters and convincing Hotch to give the locals what they wanted and get the hell out of here. Nothing was worth this—they'd come to help, not to be sneered at and insulted. Why'd they even send the file to Quantico to begin with? They obviously assumed they could handle it themselves and screw anyone else's opinion.

Something went crunch under his foot and he glanced down just as his cell phone rang. "Yeah, Emily—what's up?"

She sounded strangely subdued over the line. "Hey—can you come pick us up?"

"Why? What happened? Where you at?"

"At the Culver place." The short silence that followed somehow managed to make Morgan more apprehensive. "We appear to have been carjacked."

"What do you mean 'appear to be'?"

"I mean the car's gone, with three kids under seven in it—and we've got their father in custody."

Shit. Their big bad murder case had just turned into an amber alert. No way they could leave it now. He wondered how the community would react to the kidnapping—especially to it having taken place inside an FBI vehicle. Things were about to get uglier.

"Okay—I'll be right there."

Whatever he'd shattered had jammed itself pretty effectively into his boot—he couldn't move. As he bent down to remove it, the full realization of what it was hit him and his heart sank.

More bad news.