I don't own any of the CM characters; can only wish that I did.

Chapter 6

3 HOURS INTO SURGERY

Despite its attempt at cheery decor the waiting room was like a morgue. The prevailing atmosphere for the six inhabitants was one of supreme tension. Rossi had informed the team of Hotch's rush into emergency surgery and once Reid, Prentiss and Garcia had arrived both he and Prentiss had called Sean and Haley. Dave figured the family would be as safe with the BAU team at the hospital as anywhere else. At the back of his brain, Dave was also thinking that Jack might need to be taken to see his father one last time although he prayed fervently this wouldn't be the case. 'Fight, Hotch, fight!'

Rossi's next phone had been to Morgan. The younger agent had not taken the news well; he was barely holding his temper and frustration in check and Dave was concerned that he would do something reckless.

"Derek, you've got to stay calm."

"Rossi, I've had it with waiting for this asshole and I'm tired of playing his sick game!"

"I know." said Dave soothingly, "but this is the best chance of catching Foyet that we're ever going to get. Neither you nor Hotch need a life of constantly looking over your shoulder."

Morgan grumbled. "Yeah, okay... Is Barton doing the surgery?"

There was a pause.

"Rossi??! You better tell me the doc is doing the damn operation!!!"

"Yes, he is."

"Then what's the problem?"

Rossi sighed. "I'm just not sure how much his head is in it after that note with the eye. But after three hours we've had no word so we've got to assume the best."

Pressing his fist against his temple, Morgan closed his eyes. "Keep me posted on Hotch, okay? No filtering any news!"

"Of course... Oh, and Morgan, don't forget that Foyet thinks he still has a few hours of intimidation left. This works in our favour; Nigel is doing the surgery and unavailable for more manipulation."

"Yeah, well, I'd still feel a lot better if he'd just show himself."

"You'll get your wish Morgan, I'm sure of it. So be careful and keep in touch."

***

Calmly and very deliberately, George Foyet pulled the black-hooded sweatshirt over his head. His nap had refreshed him and he felt more energized than he had in months. Putting the trophies into a back pocket of his jeans, he took time to ensure both knife and gun were easily accessible. His preparations were slow and meticulous. This was going to be big, everything needed to be perfect. And there was no reason to hurry.

The plan was deliciously simple. Agent Morgan would be first, followed by the boy. The death of the teenager would serve as insurance that the doctor would be incapable of performing Hotchner's operation. The man who had dared refuse his deal would then either die on the operating table or from multiple stab wounds inflicted by Foyet himself. The serial killer grinned maliciously. A large part of him hoped for the latter.

Picking up his black mask, the man known as the Reaper left his hotel room and sauntered nonchalantly down the street.

***

Dr. Nigel Barton tilted his head backwards and asked that his forehead be mopped down; it was the only visible sign of the stress he'd endured and the immense concentration that he'd required for the last three hours. The first hour had been the worst. Nigel couldn't get the image of that 'eye of providence' out of his head. His colleague, Dr. Steven Morrison, had almost insisted on taking over the operation. But then the star surgeon had remembered his son's words and managed to look deep within himself; he would do the right thing. He would try to save this patient's life and would trust the BAU agents to protect Jeffrey.

The doctors were performing a "MIDCAB operation"; minimally invasive bypass surgery in which an artery that usually supplies blood to the muscles of the chest is grafted to the left anterior descending artery located close to the chest wall. Compared with a more traditional bypass, the chest incision is much smaller and the heart is able to continue beating throughout the procedure although a heart-lung machine remains in control of the patient's respiration.

So far the surgery was going according to plan. Agent Hotchner's vital signs were stable; he was certainly doing his part in battling for his life. But the most dangerous part of the operation lay ahead: the point at which Aaron's heart would be slowed by drugs and the bullet would be removed. There was no margin for error since even a slight slip could nick the heart or interfere with its electrical signals and cause major bleeding or a heart attack.

"You okay, Nigel?" asked Dr. Morrison.

Dr. Barton managed a small smile behind his surgical mask. "Fine thanks. But now it's show time. How's he doing, Hugh?"

Anaesthetist Hugh Capel looked up from his position at the head of the patient. "He's hanging in there. Stable. Let's do it."

Nigel took a deep breath and as was his custom in these circumstances, said a quick prayer for his hands. "Okay, before we lower his heart rate, I need to see exactly where the bullet is lying. The last x-ray we took showed that it had moved laterally 2mm and was in contact with the right main coronary artery..."

"Rib-spreader please." Steven held out his hand to a nurse. "Suction..." And a moment later, "Darn, just as you thought, it's pressing against that arteryall right. No wonder his sat levels dropped so fast. Together with his weakened lung, he's nowhere near getting the amount of oxygen he needs."

Dr. Barton flexed his fingers and accepted a clamp from another nurse. "Prepare to drop the heart rate." He ordered.

"Delivering 5cc Bertosamil" Capel said, concomitantly adjusting the ventilation levels on the heart-lung machine.

Nigel watched the ECG monitor closely as the drug began to take effect. 100... 83... 61... 40 beats per minute and falling... "Okay ladies and gentlemen, let's earn our paycheques." he muttered.

***

Morgan awoke with a start from a fitful nap. He was instantly alert, weapon drawn. Something wasn't right, he could feel it.

"Tubbs?" he said softly, cautiously moving into a sitting position on the couch.

The apartment was dark save for a light streaming from underneath the bathroom door. Once his eyes adjusted to the dimness Derek could see Pete's gun lying on the small table next to the deck of cards. He heard the toilet flush and water running.

'Damn rookie, not taking his gun!' Morgan thought. He relaxed slightly and was about to re-holster his weapon when he noticed a tiny trickle of red coming out from underneath the door to the bathroom.

The water stopped. In three steps Morgan had reached the door and flattened himself against the corresponding wall, heart pounding. There was no time to call for back-up... if there was still help to be had; he highly doubted it. It was now just himself and Foyet. So be it.

The bathroom door opened a crack. There was a moment of silence then Morgan heard a wry chuckle.

"So we meet again Derek." said a familiar, Boston-tinged voice. "I trust you've learned a few things since our last encounter."

There was the sound of a gun's safety being removed.

"I told you I'd be bigger than Bundy."

Morgan stayed silent, still pressed against the wall. He crouched down slightly, a tiger ready to spring on its prey.

All of a sudden, and with absolutely no warning, he was doubled over and clutching at his shoulder, blood running between his fingers. His gun clattered to the floor at his feet.

George Foyet emerged from the shadow of the bathroom, masked and still pointing his silenced Magnum44 at the agent.

"Hullo Derek." He grinned behind the mask.

Morgan gritted his teeth and glared at his attacker. "You won't get away this time Foyet! This ends here!"

The Reaper laughed and held up a pair of sunglasses he'd been holding in his other hand. Morgan recognized them as belonging to Tubbs. However, instead of fear, the agent felt nothing but rage. Built-up rage from the pig-farm case, enormous rage at the shooting of his Unit Chief and now rage at the senseless killing of a young undercover officer. He didn't pause to think, simply acted.

Foyet was taken completely by surprise as Morgan lunged forward and crashed into the killer, knocking them both to the floor. The Magnum44 and sunglasses were sent flying as the two men tussled for supremacy.

Had he been one-hundred percent, Morgan would probably have subdued the other man. But in spite of his anaemia, Foyet was putting up a strong fight and unfortunately for the profiler made a sudden move which gave him the upper hand...

Morgan saw only a brief flash as light from the bathroom hit metal. The knife swooped down and found its target. Derek grunted in surprise and fresh pain; he let go of his assailant and lay face-down, breathing heavily.

Foyet used his foot to roll the agent over onto his back where he could look into the eyes of his soon-to-be next victim.

"As I told Agent Hotchner, there's no-one like me. He should have taken the deal. Nobody would have to have died. Now you're about to pay for his arrogance."

He held up the knife again, deliberating which part of Morgan's torso to stab next.

"But don't worry Derek. After I'm through here I'll make sure your boss suffers even more than you will have done. I've got a very special plan for him should he survive surgery..." Foyet checked his watch. "... this is now highly unlikely despite your attempt at using an imposter for the boy."

He crouched down on his heels, studying the man in front of him. "I thought I'd carve my trademark into his chest, nice and deep... What do you think?"

Morgan grimaced but stared defiantly back into the mask. The knife had caught him in his left side but although there was a lot of blood, Derek realized that the wound was superficial and not life-threatening. If he could prevent another blow and somehow stop the blood loss he might just be able to gain an advantage. He could see Foyet's gun laying only a couple of feet away; his own had been kicked to the other side of the room. He pretended to faint, fluttering his eyes and groaning.

"No, Agent Morgan, it's not time to sleep yet." Foyet nudged the downed agent's foot. "Don't you want to know what I'm going to leave on Hotchner's body?" he taunted.

"Nothing." mumbled Derek with exaggerated weakness. "You're too late. Agent Hotchner will be out of surgery by now and recovering in a hidden location."

Foyet started at his victim. "You're lying." He sneered. "You're just trying to buy time. I was at the hospital when the surgeon delivered that juicy tidbit of information about your boss' time frame... I know exactly when he's being operated on."

But Morgan detected the subtle hesitation and doubt in Foyet's voice. He pressed on.

"Not lying..." he spat with another false groan. "Oh, and did I mention that Doc Barton was doing the op? Quadrupled the outcome odds I'm told; he's that good."

At this, Foyet roared in a sudden outburst of anger. All his careful planning was about to go up in smoke. He leapt to his feet and turning his back on the agent, threw off his mask in frustration. It gave Morgan the split second he needed. In one motion he rolled over, snatched the Magnum44 from the floor, aimed and pulled the trigger...

*BANG!!!*

***