Reid sat through the briefing on their latest unsub. "He" was terrorizing a small New Mexico community with a dozen kills over the last two months. The local police were certain that items left at the scene were clues to the killer's identity, but had made no headway in solving the murders. There was no pattern to the kills: four young men, three teenaged girls, three mature women and two children. The links were the damage inflicted on the victims and the odd "clues" left inside the victims. The unsub's methodology was undeniably gruesome. All victims were tortured prior to being killed, but the venues and types were different.

The items were odd also: a fifteenth century Chinese coin, a plastic scarab, five pieces of a vintage matchbox car, a Rottweiler's canine, a Chihuahua sized dog collar, a pen knife, a Tarot card, and a tin mint box. What a historian with a penchant for dogs, fortune telling, breath mints and sharpening pencils had to do with this case was more than anyone could figure out. While the description fit the items, they were well aware that this was not a picture of their unsub.

A break came from another governmental agency on the third day. They knew they were getting close to another murder, the first ones having been spaced out almost exactly 8 days apart. The sheriff was not sanguine about their ability to prevent another death and capture the unsub. The folder was delivered by a sober young man in a suit right out of Men in Black. He made Hotchner sign for the envelope, made a military grade about face and left before anyone could form a question. Hotch opened the envelope and pulled out a standard manila folder in which were two photos and a single sheet of paper.

Hotch pinned the photos to the board they were using to break out the murders and possible links. The man was dark haired, dark eyes, with chiseled good looks that should have landed him in the movies or at least some sort of TV show about the gritty underside of law or international espionage. The woman was equally striking, although not classically beautiful. There was something about the eyes that both drew and repelled. Jason Weeks and Jett Tesuque; not necessarily their birth names, but the ones most commonly used.

"These are only probable," Agent Rossi reminded them over the sudden babble of voices in the room.

"Ah ... not entirely," Reid interjected. All eyes were suddenly on him. He wasn't sure he wanted to be the one to exonerate the pair, but he had to point out a flaw in the current theory. "The woman, Jett Tesuque, she could not have been involved in at least two of the murders."

"Why?"

"Because she was locked in a room in a warehouse, rescued me and ... killed 11 members of the Russian Mafia the day Maria Villalobos died." There. He'd said it. They were all staring at him except Rossi who was nodding.

"Rossi." Hotch was frowning at the older man.

"He's right. But the items may start to make sense. Tesuque uses a knife in preference. The pen knife was extremely sharp."

Reid nodded. "Yes. She used a knife in preference to grabbing a gun, of which there were plenty in the area." That gave them one item of 12 to work with. "None of the rest makes any sense."

Hotch, reading over the sheet in the folder again, shook his head. "No, some of it does. Weeks is known to prefer classic cars. The five pieces make up a model of a 1956 Thunderbird. He speaks Chinese fluently, Mandarin and Cantonese."

"And the tarot card is the Devil. How was it found? Upside down or right side up?"

"Reversed," Spenser noted from the notes on the board. "Doesn't that negate the normal meanings of the cards?" he asked as he made a note beside the picture of the young woman who had held the card.

"Generally speaking, yes. So. While their own people suspect Weeks and Tesuque of the murders, where does that leave us?"

"Looking for someone who knows the two of them and has either killed or held them captive while working out his or her own agenda," Rossi answered the question. "Reid?"

Spenser shrugged his shoulders. "She's capable of killing, but …" He gestured to the photos. "This is not her killing field. These victims are wrong."

"Why?" Hotch shot the question at him.

"She's ..." Something clicked in his head. "She's a vigilante. She killed the Russians, mafia members, but she left me alive. She even discarded her weapon before she approached me. Not that she couldn't have killed me without it, but that she chose not to do so," he emphasized the last word as he looked at the pictures and descriptions. "These are all innocents, comparatively. They might have made errors, but they were essentially good people."

"So where does that leave us?"

"We find them before their people do, before the killer does," Hotch answered. "If they're in custody, the killing stops or we have proof that they are not responsible." He looked to Reid. "Any ideas, Spenser?"

Reid's mouth opened and closed. "No. There's no ... connection. We were held in a warehouse. I can't see her using one as a base when she was held in one ... I don't know."

They broke for lunch. Reid stayed behind for a while, staring at the photos, looking for any correlation they could use and finding nothing. Tired, he took a walk, ending up sitting on a bench in a small park, watching the locals play and enjoy the seductive greenery. It struck him that New Mexico had a love affair with parks that were green. Maybe all the sand had something to do with that. He headed back to the local sheriff's dept., checking his car on the way in.

Out of nowhere, he was aware of a person stepping in close to him. All the training he'd gone through left him as she pressed up close against him, trapping him against the car door. She breathed against the side of his neck, making him shiver. A chuckle told him exactly who the woman was. She nuzzled the nape of his neck, warm lips tickling his skin, raising his temperature and getting his attention. "Looking for me?"

"Sort of ..."

"Sort of?" She inhaled deeply with her nose pressed against him, filling her senses with his scent. "Only sort of?"

He took a breath, sat on his unruly libido, and pointed out that someone in the agency she worked for had brought them information on the two of them. Her sudden cessation of movement against him was worrying. For a moment he wondered if he'd said the wrong thing. Her chin dropped to his shoulder and stayed there as she seemed to think this through.

"The Agency?"

"I presume so. The courier looked a bit MIB about things."

She laughed at his description. "Yeah, they get all formal," she agreed, running her hands lightly over his chest and sides. "They blame us? They're blaming Jason?" Reid nodded. He wasn't certain his voice wouldn't crack. "I haven't seen Jason since before the Russians."

"How ..." Reid cleared his throat and tried again. "How long?" Damn, she was making it difficult to concentrate. He was a master of ignoring things, but this was ... He drew in a shuddery breath. Talk about Deja vu.

She stepped back, pulled him around to face her and kissed him; not the gentle exploratory kiss of their first meeting, this one was hard and demanding. His arms went around her almost of their own volition and he pulled her against him, feeling every curve and heated surface of her in spite of the two layers of clothing separating them. The kiss became mutual, infinite, finite and ended; both of them breathing hard, they stood there, forehead to forehead for a long moment before parting. She met his gaze directly, hiding nothing. Reid knew she was a killer, probably a true psychotic, and also knew that she was not the one they sought.

"Come with me."

She shook her head. "No. Tell your people not to get in my way." Her mouth touched his again in good bye. When he opened his eyes, she was gone.