What a Difference a Day Makes
Chapter Four
JJ's POV
I managed to drive myself to the FBI building without crashing or breaking down into a puddle of tears, and I met the rest of the team in the roundtable room. Everyone looked like crap, and I suppose I do too, pale as a sheet with messy hair and red and bloodshot eyes from crying. Hotch stood at the head of the table with a sombre expression, the same one he had worn at Haley's funeral. Rossi stood stoic beside him, with slightly reddened eyes and constantly wringing hands. Morgan looked like he was about to punch something or someone if he didn't get answers immediately. Spence, with his dark eyes, scraggly hair and pale appearance, looked like an apparition, a ghost who would disappear any second. Garcia had trails of makeup painting across her cheeks which she didn't bother hiding, and her red-rimmed eyes peered out nervously from behind her glasses.
"JJ, what happened?" Spence asked in a voice that was so weak and hopeless it was almost childlike. I took a deep breath and hoped that I could at least finish the story without breaking down.
"The reason Emily took vacation for the next week is because her mother was invited to Syria by one of her ambassador friends to assist a charity that is building a school for the children there. Emily came along to volunteer. From what I can understand, they were caught in the crossfire of what appears to be a terrorist bombing. She has 3rd degree burns on 20% of her body, a ruptured spleen, damaged eardrums, broken ribs and a severe concussion. I was talking to the doctor when suddenly a whole bunch of alarms went off, and doctors were yelling stuff, and he said he'd call us back. Then the line went dead. That's all I know" I managed to remain in my Agent Jareau form, the side of me who can give press briefings in front of a crowd of reporters as relentless as ravenous dogs, who can stand by a suffering family member during their time of suffering and offer a small beacon of hope, until the truth ate away at my professional façade like acid. This isn't some random victim, this isn't an unsub we can profile and bring to justice; it was Emily, maimed by a faceless attacker. I started to cry again and Penelope wrapped me in what was supposed to be a comforting embrace, but felt more like both of us holding on for dear life.
"She'll be fine, she'll pull through." She murmured, but was she trying to convince me or herself?
"Did you know that 94% of terror attacks aren't related to radical Muslims? And that global warming actually kills more people than terrorist attacks?" Spence piped up hollowly, almost needing to share the facts out of some comfort, like a child who carries around a treasured blankie to protect him from monsters under his bed. No one spoke another word until my cell phone rang, and I patched it in through the Bluetooth so everyone could hear.
"Dr. Sierawan, the rest of Emily's team is on the line as well, what's the news?" I tried to keep it together, my voice only wavering slightly as I spoke.
"A clot formed in her brain, which was causing it to swell and the pressure to rise. We drilled a hole in her skull to evacuate the clot and hooked up a drain to get rid of any future bleeding, she's stable for now." His voice sounded exhausted, and I had guessed that it had been touch-and-go for a while there. Garcia hugged Morgan, crying out a grateful, "thank goodness!" Spence silently grasped my hand, giving me a quick look of relief. Rossi clapped Hotch on the back, and Hotch released a breath I doubt he was aware he had been holding.
"So she's okay?" I still didn't quite believe him; it seemed too good to be true.
"She's stable for now, I think she'll be okay for you to fly out." At that point, Hotch fixed me with 'The Look', the one that says that I have a lot of explaining to do. "Now, if you'll excuse me," the doctor continued,"I have other patients to attend to, so I must go, goodbye." And then he hung up. The rest of the team was talking in a relieved chorus, and they were so busy they didn't notice Hotch and I slip away to his office. He closed the door, wearing his serious, boss-man face.
"JJ, did you promise the Doctor that we were flying a plane out to get Emily without consulting anyone?" he asked, sitting down in his chair behind his desk.
"Well…" I trailed off, not really having an excuse, "yes." I hung my head ashamedly.
"Any of us would have done the same thing." He assented, and the sympathy in his voice surprised me. "You organize a Medevac to fly out, you can go along. I'll get Strauss to sign off on it, somehow." He gave me a rare half-hearted grin and I was so close to hugging him right now. Instead I yelled my thanks as I rushed back to the roundtable room, where Reid was currently delivering the statistics on head wound recovery.
"Garcia, I need you and your amazing hacking prowess!" I called, and she hopped up excitedly.
"Well, my blonde beauty, me and my screens are at your command!" she quickly walked down to her lair, lime green heels clicking against the tile floor, and sat down, hands on the keyboard in a matter of seconds.
"I need the closest Medevac plane equipped to fly, and I need it ready for a trip to Syria as fast as possible, ignore the time restrictions, tell them this is an FBI agent! Tell them she's the daughter of Elizabeth Prentiss the diplomat! Tell them she's the freakin' president I don't care, just make sure they know time is of the essence." I yelled, watching the stream of information pour in from the computer screens around me.
"Closest airstrip is Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport, and I'm dialling the number as I speak." Penelope called, and I was moving again, running for the elevator.
"Thanks Pen!" I yelled behind me, and she gave me a little salute as I boarded the elevator.
"Just bring back our girl!" she called before the doors shut. As soon as the doors opened I sprinted as fast as possible to my car, throwing it in drive before I even sat down. I went speeding out the door and took off in the direction of the airstrip, hoping that the government-issue car would prevent me from being pulled over as I watched the needle on the speedometer fly past the 100 miles an hour mark. After 15 minutes of driving that would have looked right at home in an action flick, I pulled into the airport parking lot and jumped out, rushing into the office.
"There's a Medevac flight due to depart any minute now, where is it?" I asked breathlessly, and the woman behind the desk simply pointed to a terminal. Feeling slightly reassured that they were waiting for me; I slowed my pace to a fast walk. I turned into the terminal when I saw the glint of light off the shining fuselage outside. I boarded the plane along with a handful of doctors and nurses who would take care of Emily on the flight back. I settled into my seat, feeling sorely out of place in my blazer and dress pants, while everyone else on board was clad in a rainbow of scrubs. I played with a stray thread on the edge of my blouse as the pilot went through the pre-flight checklist. My stomach flipped while the engines powered up, pushing the cabin into the air. I studied the cabin; it looked similar to our jet, except it had two stretchers in it, along with a variety of other medical apparatus and machines. The image seemed wrong, the mental picture of Emily, vibrant, strong Emily with a tube in her throat to breathe for her and a drain in her head to evacuate blood because her brain is bleeding from the sheer force of the blast and being knocked around by it, with tubes and wires monitoring her every heartbeat in case it was her last. She was beautiful and strong, she didn't deserve this. No one does, but Emily especially; don't we go through enough hardship each day at our jobs? Seeing gruesome murders and placing ourselves in their mindset in order to stop them. Then there was Emily and her mother, and I was convinced that the gorgeous brunette has never felt truly loved, I wish I could give her that, I want to give her that, and I hope I won't be too late. Wait, her mother, Ambassador Prentiss, there had been no word about her, in fact no word on any other survivors at all. For Emily the trauma of the bombing itself would hurt her, but how would she react if her mother had died? As we rocketed over the ocean, I had a sneaking suspicion that the Emily Prentiss I had seen a day ago was completely different than the one I was going to pick up. It was barely a day, 24 hours, 1440 minutes, 86400 seconds. How much of a difference could one day make?