Stan was pacing painfully as he talked mostly to himself. "This now makes my charges...1,190 counts of murder, many of which I'm not sure I even commit, what will be...let's see: Prentiss, Jareau, Morgan, Rossi, Hotchner, Reid times three, so yes. 1,190 counts of murder, twelve counts of attempted murder, nine counts of abduction, theft, assault...what else?"

"Twenty-six counts...of...sexual assault...not including...the number...of times you...stripped me...naked and...kissed my entire...body nor the... number of times...you simply...kissed me," Amy added. "And...your murder...number's...wrong: you would have...1,191 counts...of murder."

Stan looked at her in confusion. "Your brother is sitting right next to you, alive."

Amy shook her head. "That's...not...what I mean. You didn't...include...Samantha."

Stan collapsed to his knees. "That was more of assisted suicide than murder. After all, it was she who killed herself."

Amy narrowed her eyes. "What...do you...mean?"

Stan sighed. "We truly loved each other. She didn't mind that I was her father; she knew what had to be done and was very upset when we learned she couldn't even have kids due to her ovarian cysts. Then, when she was twelve, I saw you, Amy. Granted, I was forty two and you only three, but I know beauty and potential when I see it, and you were and are very beautiful and extremely full of potential. When Samantha and I finally went home and I started making dinner, she addressed our encounter. She said she knew I had fallen in love with you; she could see it in my eyes and she heard it in my compliment. She said she didn't blame me for falling for someone who had more potential for providing a successful heir to the Carter name, but I told her I was perfectly happy having her with me; she was all I really needed. And then...she asked me to let her help me prepare dinner. Thinking she really wanted to help, I handed her the knife I was using to chop the various vegetables before turning to the stove to observe the pots and the stir fry in the pan. Moments later, I hear her muted scream and turn around. She...my baby...she..." Stan started crying. "She tortured herself then finally slit her throat after saying, 'I'll always love you, Daddy.' I just watched her. I couldn't move. I couldn't make a sound. I simply froze there like an idiot and watched her die."

The room was silent, save for Stan's sobs and tears. Amy's own eyes started tearing up. This was one of the saddest things she'd ever seen. Stan never cried. He never displayed weakness. He never talked freely about himself or of his life. But now...he did. He was truly a fragile being in some respects. And right then and there, most of his actions made sense. His love of children (not going as far as pedophilia), his instability, his unvoiced fear of knives, his delicate handling of Amy... Stan was fragile. His aggression and nefariousness was simply a mask. A show. One that distracted everyone from the real him.

Stan finally stopped crying and sighed. He pulled out the prescription and looked through the transparent orange plastic and sighed again. "Two pills and no more for when I actually need them, or do I give in and have a sip?" He held up his hand and watched it tremble. He sighed, putting away the prescription. "I'm giving in."

He then removed a small metal flask, removing the cap and tossing his head back quickly. He let the beverage - no doubt a form of alcohol - sit on his tongue a minute before swallowing, putting the flask back inside his suit jacket. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall, his tongue rubbing the inside of his mouth to get the rest of the alcohol from his mouth down his throat with his many swallows.

He sighed and opened his eyes, taking the flask back out and downing another sip before putting the flask back and declaring, "No more, no more today. I have to save it, because there's no getting more, and I cannot go through withdrawals again."

Reid sighed. "I know how you feel in that respect. I've been sober for a while now-"

Stan's look cut him off. "Don't. Please. I don't need your pitifully lame attempts at either mockery or mock-sympathy. So don't try. Please. You'll make my head hurt worse."

Amy sighed. "What...did you drink?"

Stan smiled at the memory of the beverage. "A real nice cognac; my favorite brand. Expensive, but simply divine."

Amy nodded slowly, looking over at Domonick and Reid. The two were tied together again, just like they had when the three were first abducted. However, their bondage had grown in more ways than one.

Something everyone should have paid attention to was merely overlooked: Domonick was having a coughing fit.

The SUVs finally skidded to a stop in front of the building, and the BAU team raced out and over to the building as the SWAT vans also appeared stopped.

As soon as everyone was inside, the team simultaneously pulled out their firearms as a piece of paper with a bold message on the wall in front of them greeted them:

WELCOME. THIRD FLOOR. MAKE IT QUICK. I HATE TO BE KEPT WAITING.

Morgan instantly said, "It could be a trap."

Instantly Hotch's phone went off. He didn't recognize the number, but answered anyway. "Hotchner."

"Do tell Agent Morgan I would never lie. Not about something as drastic as the lives of three highly-valued individuals as well as mine and all of yours," said the familiar British voice.

"Tell him yourself," Hotch said, putting the phone on speaker so all could hear.

Morgan instantly was fuming. "Listen you, if you dared hurt any of them, I swear-"

There was laughter from the other end. "Oh, Agent Morgan. Your rage is priceless, and will do you no good."

Morgan was shaking and breathing heavily in rage. "You fucking bastard!"

"Morgan, that is enough!" Hotch ordered, and his fellow agent and friend glared at him.

"Hotch, he's a murderer and a rapist. He needs to die!"

"Then find your way up here and get to it!" Stan roared. "Third floor. Oh, and good luck getting to us." With that, the call terminated.

Hotch put his phone away quickly. "Now we have a furious unsub. Fantastic."

Morgan sighed angrily. "Third floor?"

"There's only one way to find out," Rossi said, and so the team made their way up to the third floor, taking the stairs. The SWAT scattered throughout the building, some following the team but stopping at the first and second floors to inspect them just in case.

As soon as the team was at the third floor, they knew they were in trouble.

"No wonder he wished us luck," Prentiss said, staring at the maze.

"Split up?" JJ asked, and Hotch nodded, about to race into the maze when suddenly there was a scream.

"PLEASE! MAKE IT STOP! PLEASE, I'M BEGGING YOU MAKE IT STOP! PLEASE STOP!" Amy cried and screamed in pain again.

Morgan cried, "AMY!"

The team exchanged worried glances as the child went through a PTSD episode no doubt on the other side of the building.

"AMY, SHUT UP ALREADY! HOW MANY TIMES MUST I TELL YOU?!" Stan was shouting back at her.

There was another scream then a whimper, then the team heard Reid shout, "Hey, stop it! Don't do that to her!"

"You leave me no choice, Amy!" Stan shouted. "And you need to shut the hell up as well!"

The team exchanged worried glances once again as Morgan cried again, "AMY! WE'RE COMING FOR YOU, GIRL!"

With that, the team nodded at each other simultaneously and ran into the maze, each agent taking a different path in hopes of reaching their friends and Stan quickly.

Hotch quickly made his way through the maze, hardly ever coming across a dead end, carefully aiming his gun as he went. Finally, after fifteen minutes (it was a rather large maze), he managed to make his way out to the external ring of…what used to be offices. He carefully checked each office as he went, searching for any sign of life in them. And then he saw them.

The first thing Hotch noticed was that Amy, looking worse in person than in the video, was bound and gagged on a desk that had been transformed into a bed, bound and gagged no doubt due to her PTSD episode as the team first arrived on the floor. The second thing he noticed was that Domonick and Reid were on the floor, bound together, both men gagged. The third thing Hotch noticed was Domonick's head had fallen forward, meaning he was unconscious. The last thing he noticed was the fearful look in Amy's eyes and Reid's shaking of his head.

Then he was attacked.

A sharp pain erupted in his upper back. Hotch nearly lost his grip on his gun as he fell to the floor. There was a single shot fired, and pieces of cement from the ceiling fell, but nothing else before Hotch rolled over onto his back and aimed his gun at Stan from the floor. Stan laughed, aiming his own pistol at Hotch. From this view, the Brit looked threatening and sadistic, as he towered over Hotch though definitely injured. His forehead had been stitched up – just as Rob Carter had said – and there were a few bruises and cuts on his face and arms, but no other wounds could be seen on the 53-year-old murderer, rapist, thief, and kidnapper. In his right hand was an M9 9mm semiautomatic pistol; in his left…a homemade detonator that had the looks of a high-tech mousetrap. Hotch quickly glanced over at Reid and Domonick, and saw the two men wore elaborate bomb vests. Stan had obviously been very busy and very careful.

"We are at a draw, Agent Hotchner," Stan said in a hauntingly sinister voice, smiling as if all of his plans were falling into place. "However, I still hold the advantage. You shoot, I drop this here detonator, the whole place goes up and everyone dies. You let me shoot you, I detonate the place, everyone dies, but you die first. Take your pick."

Hotch sighed, closing his eyes, but he did not lower his gun. This could really be the end.