CHAPTER ONE: AREA WOMAN ALWAYS HAS BACKUP PLANS JUST IN CASE

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WHAT BEATRICE STERLING needed was a way to ditch her blind date.

Fast.

In an opulent restaurant adorned with crystal chandeliers and golden accents, Beatrice Sterling found herself on her third blind date of the month. The air was thick with an atmosphere that teetered on the edge of grandeur and pretentiousness. As they perused the menu, the waiter delicately poured sparkling water into crystal glasses.

Beatrice observed her date. She wasn't going to deny that he was really handsome with captivating blue eyes and an enviable physique, yet with every word that escaped his lips, it became painfully clear that he held his own accomplishments in higher regard than anything else. He ranted tirelessly about his high-profile cases for two hours, leaving no room for curiosity or interest in her own preferences, dreams, or aspirations. How her neighbor convinced her they would make a cute couple, she will never know.

The surrounding patrons spoke in hushed tones, their gestures precise, as if partaking in a carefully choreographed dance of refinement. Despite the allure of the luxurious setting, Beatrice couldn't help but feel uneasy, yearning for authenticity amidst the artifice that surrounded her. It was, after all, one of the most expensive restaurants in New Jersey, Chez Catherine and so she expected more.

Biting the inside of her cheek, the blonde circled the rim of her wine glass.

It had actually been a year ever since she went on a date; too busy writing reports about gathered intelligence, analyzing cyber activities of potential international terrorists. As a unit chief in the Cyber Counterintelligence Section, she almost has little to no time to find someone to be with. Also, almost all of the guys she dated walked away when they discovered how demanding her job was. It didn't make her sad though, she loved her job very much and enjoyed what she was doing.

Her eyes leisurely watched her finger skim the side of her glass, silently hoping she would be able to end this disaster of a date politely. Her other hand reached behind her neck, her fingertips lightly pressing the skin. She offered another bright smile and eagerly nodded to show her interest in their one-sided conversation.

Her date-whose name she already forgot, had just finished his meal; hands reaching out to pick up his napkin and pat it against his lips. "Are you doing okay?"

She hummed, eyes flicking up to meet him. "Yeah, yeah! I heard you talking about your win against the, uh, what was it again?" She chuckled, snapping her fingers. "Ah! The Freeway Corporation, yes."

His blue eyes skimmed over her, his lips curling into a grin. "You're so cute when you smile. Perhaps," She watched him suck in a breath, his fingers slowly sneaking over to her resting hand. "Do you want us to go somewhere priva-"

The sound of a loud whirring noise suddenly shattered the tranquility inside the building, instantly capturing Beatrice's attention. Her gaze instinctively turned towards the source, and her eyes widened as a helicopter descended outside, its blades slicing through the air with an ominous presence.

Within moments, chaos erupted as the restaurant doors were violently thrown open and two figures clad in gray jumpsuits and helmets stormed inside.

Whispers spread like wildfire through the startled crowd, a symphony of hushed conversations that filled the void left by the intrusion. The tension in the air thickened, mingling with the scent of uncertainty and fear. The two intruders continued their relentless exploration.

"Beatrice Sterling? Beatrice Sterling?"

"What's going on? Why are they looking for you?" questioned her date, confused by the current situation.

"I have no idea," The blonde arched her eyebrow as she fixed her eyes on them, her head tilting slightly to the side before raising her hand.

"SSA Beatrice Sterling?" clarified one of them, approaching her. Beatrice stood up from her seat, nodding to confirm. "I'm Staff Sergeant Clarkson with the United States Air Force."

"Ma'am, I need your keys."

The analyst blinked, "For what?"

"I have orders to drive your car back to your hotel."

Beatrice swallowed. There was absolutely no reason she would be taken away by the Air Force unless there was an emergency. Clarkson gently placed his hand on her shoulder, turning her around. "Hey, can you please tell us first what is going on? What is this commotion about? Beatrice—" protested the lawyer.

"Ma'am, we have to go."

"Sorry." was her brief reply to the lawyer after swiftly snatching up her purse and handing her key to Clarkson's companion. The blonde was then escorted out of the restaurant where her date's voice was drowned out by the deafening noise of the helicopter's engine and rotors. "Right in here, ma'am. Watch your step."

"Here's your go bag, ma'am!" The man who took her car keys delivered a black duffel bag to her. As the man handed her the go bag, she accepted it with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation, placing it gently beside her. With a practiced motion, she retrieved her glasses from the pocket of her bag.

"Ma'am? Sebastian Sterling is on the phone."

She swiftly pressed the phone to her ear, her voice carrying a mixture of concern and relief. "Uncle."

"Why is your phone turned off?"

"Oh, shoot," grimaced the woman, a sense of regret coloring her words. "It died just earlier, but that's not the reason why I was snatched away by the Air Force, right?"

"We were just notified of a bombing in the vicinity of twenty-six Federal Plaza. Two blocks east. I got a hold of the BAU just minutes ago and they confirmed it to be a terrorist attack."

The news of a bombing near Federal Plaza shattered the already tense atmosphere. Her mind raced, processing the implications and the urgent need for action.

"Uncle, there haven't been any recent suspicious bombings," she interjected, her voice laced with a mix of concern and confusion. "My program has been diligently monitoring and terrorists usually conduct simulated attacks to gauge police response time."

"You're right." Her uncle affirmed the absence of recent bombings then revealed a chilling truth. "In the last three weeks, there have been eight suspicious incidents. Random acts of murder in broad daylight," he shared, his words painting a dark tapestry of violence and uncertainty.

"Yeah, I heard about that one in the news. What were the locations of these murders?"

"Holland Tunnel, Murray Hill, Manhattan Bridge, Lower East Side, Hell's Kitchen, Chinatown, Midtown Tunnel. . . all different shooters."

Nodding to herself, Beatrice began to connect the dots, her mind trying to piece together the puzzle. "So, eight different shooters," she mused aloud, her voice tinged with a mix of realization and unease. "Most of them near bridges or tunnels. It's their test run. Very clever. Instead of bombs, they're simulating a series of murders to deceive us, to make us think they're just serial murders."

Pushing her glasses up her nose with a sense of purpose, Beatrice longed for a change of attire. She wanted to shed the constraints of her dress to embrace a more agile mindset.

Focused on the task at hand, she continued, "Now, if their bombs were to go off in those places, emergency response would block the entry and exit points of the city. No one escapes. Did you call Homeland Security? What about New York headquarters?" Urgency dripped from her words as she sought to ensure that the appropriate agencies were alerted and mobilized. Time was of the essence, and the safety of countless lives depended on a swift and coordinated response.

"BAU already did. DHS sent tactical teams into all of those locations just before I made this call. Bomb techs, HRT, HAZMAT, SWAT, you name it, they're already there." informed Sebastian.

"Good, because they will be looking for eight suicide bombers who are about to blow up all those mentioned places."

"Sixteen, actually. BAU predicted there would be sixteen."

"Makes sense," she shrugged, hastily removing her earrings, while pinning the phone between her ear and her shoulder. "The goal is to take out a first round of civilians followed by a second wave of emergency responders. I'll be on my way to Newark now to look if there were any cyber intrusion-"

"No, Bea. I want you to oversee this situation yourself. Critical Incident Command Center's Team Leader and the BAU are already expecting your arrival. Liaise with them on this one and run point if you deem it necessary."

A mix of hesitation and self-doubt welled up within her. "Wait, I-I can't do that. I no longer work in the field. I'm-I'm an analyst." Beatrice swallowed. "I now work in Cyber, remember? Not CTD."

"I know, but as of the moment, you and the BAU are our best chance of putting a stop to this threat."

Her uncle's words echoed in Beatrice's mind. The memory of him mentioning the presence of other operatives working on the case resurfaced, prompting her to seek clarification. "Didn't you assign a joint FBI-NYPD task force to handle this already?" she queried, her voice tinged with curiosity.

"Agent Joyner isn't responding to our calls at this moment. The Fly Team from CTD is still on its way. We can't contact NY headquarters as well, so I want you to handle the situation yourself. Can you do it?"

Despite her initial hesitation, Bea felt a surge of determination rise within her. "Yes, sir," she responded, her voice steady, interwoven with a hint of resilience. "I mean, if the future Director of the FBI wants me to handle it, why would I say no, right?"

She could almost envision her uncle's reaction, a scoff that conveyed both concern and annoyance. "Beatrice,"

"Yes?"

"Stay safe, alright? Chia's been asking all afternoon when you'll come pick her up."

"Tell her I have something for her when I get back."

"I'll see you here in Quantico."

The pilot's voice filled the cabin, announcing the imminent arrival at the command post's landing zone. Beatrice shifted in her seat. The need to assess the bombing site firsthand compelled her. "Take me to the bombing site," she asserted.

Clarkson, the voice of reason and precaution, raised a hand to his helmet. "Ma'am, that area hasn't been cleared yet," he cautioned.

Undeterred, Beatrice dismissed his apprehension with a determined gaze. She swiftly discarded her heels, opting for practical rubber shoes. "Just drop me off somewhere nearby," she insisted, her words carrying a hint of defiance. "I'll make my way there on foot."

Clarkson nodded in reluctant agreement. "Land us on Federal Plaza, Olson."

"Roger that."

Leaning back against her seat, Bea ran a hand through her hair, brushing the strands away from her face. "Of all the days, they chose to attack on my day off. . ." she grumbled, a hint of exasperation punctuating her words. "Damned terrorists."

Lord God, when I asked for a way for me to ditch that date, this isn't what I wanted to happen.

CLAD IN A bulletproof vest, Beatrice emerged from the chopper, ready for action. She navigated through first responders, blending in with the chaos. From a vantage point, she assessed the situation. With her vest and taser safely tucked within its holster, she prepared for action.

Squinting against the backdrop of flashing lights, Beatrice's sharp eyes discerned the faint figures standing mere meters away from the barricades. Her heart quickened, adrenaline surging through her veins as she pushed forward.

As the wild flames consumed the SUV behind them, Beatrice's instincts kicked into high gear. She recognized the telltale signs, confirming that this was the reported car bombing. Without tearing her gaze away from the harrowing scene, Bea's hand shot out, gripping the arm of a sprinting bomb technician, halting him in his tracks. "Who's in charge here?"

"Captain Warner, over there."

Beatrice followed his gaze and nodded, patting his shoulder as her thanks.

"That's my boss down there!"

"My orders are what they are." sternly replied Captain Warner to the desperate looking man in front of him. Beatrice crossed her eyebrows and approached the two men, taking out her identification card to introduce herself.

"I don't give a damn what your orders are."

"Agent Sterling, FBI." The analyst held her badge up, inserting it back into her back pocket once they both had a good look. "I've been assigned to oversee this situation. What's the problem here?"

"Not another one," She heard the head of the team grumble under his breath.

"My boss is over there and no one is willing to help him." answered the man with a rich dark complexion, his chiseled jawline and well-defined facial structure hinting at a man of determination and resilience. His stature demanded attention, and with his classic, super-short fade haircut emphasized a sense of sharpness.

"Look, I get it, Agents. But we've been told by you that responders are the targets. So 'til the blast site is cleared, no one goes in."

"You're Marine Corps, right? Right?"

"Please, go back to the marshaling point."

"Let him—us through. Now." She corrected herself. A chilling realization coursed through Beatrice's veins as she surveyed the aftermath of the car bomb. The possibility loomed large, gnawing at her instincts and settling heavily in her gut. She felt an ominous certainty that the threat was far from over.

"Look, I'm not just gonna let my man lay down there like that."

"Help us! Damn it, we're here!" desperately cried one of the wounded behind the barricades.

Beatrice snapped in a burst of frustration. "Captain Warner! Two people in that area are screaming for our help and you're just standing there, doing nothing to get them out!" She stepped in between the team leader and the other FBI agent.

"Never leave a man behind. You do remember that, don't you?"

"I cannot risk the lives of my men out there. Will you be held responsible if something happens?" A heavily armored man approached their side. Without a word, he leaned in close to the captain, imparting information in a hushed tone and in a seamless motion, the armored man handed the captain a radio and an earpiece. "Agent Sterling," Captain Warner acknowledged, handing over the equipment to her. "Command Center is waiting for your orders."

"Get us an ambulance inside, Captain. That is my order." seethed Beatrice, her irritation spiking up as she seized the two-way radio. Patting the other agent's shoulder to give him a signal, she said, "Let's go."

"Thanks."

"No problem. I'm Beatrice Sterling, CD." She introduced herself while wrapping the communication device around her.

"Derek Morgan, BAU."

"Let's go get your boss." The two of them break into a sprint as Beatrice set herself to look out for the bomber.

With swift efficiency, they reached the injured individuals in a matter of seconds. Beatrice's heart tightened as her gaze fell upon the pool of crimson liquid staining the asphalt. Her throat tightened, but she pushed aside her unease, focusing on the scene unfolding before her.

A woman with light hair lay on the ground, her consciousness ebbing and flowing. Her breath caught in her throat as she took in the gruesome scene before her. Blood, dark and relentless, seeped from the woman's back. Her soot-covered face, marred by cuts and bruises, spoke of a painful struggle endured while standing over her, a man bore his own wounds, ruby droplets seeping out as he fought against his own weariness. Despite his own injuries, his attention remained fixated on the woman before him, displaying a selflessness that stirred Beatrice's admiration.

"Morgan, we've got to get her out of here."

"An ambulance is now on its way, Hotch. She got us one." Morgan jutted his chin towards her direction. "You just gotta hold on for a bit longer. Kid, you gotta get behind the barricades." He continued to instruct. "Go!"

"Go, Sam."

"Good luck."

After meticulously surveying the entire area, Beatrice's sharp gaze darted around. Raising her wrist to her lips, she swiftly activated her communication device, issuing a commanding directive to Captain Warner.

"Captain Warner, inform Homeland Security immediately," she stated firmly, her voice carrying the weight of authority. "They need to conduct a comprehensive sweep on all moving and parked vehicles within the vicinity of the murder sites. We cannot afford to overlook any potential threats."

With the order issued, Bea's attention refocused, scanning the surroundings for any suspicious individuals. It was then that her eyes locked onto a figure amidst the chaos—a young man clad in a hooded sweatshirt; Sam, she recalled his name being mentioned earlier by one of the wounded. His presence stood out, not only due to his proximity to the wrecked vehicle but also because his expression seemed oddly detached from what one would expect from a person who had just witnessed a devastating bombing.

Her curiosity piqued, Beatrice's instincts kicked into high gear. Something about the boy's demeanor seemed off, prompting a surge of concern and suspicion. She turned off her device and slowly approached him. "Hey, show me your ID." The analyst was certain she heard Morgan ordered this young man to get behind the barricades, so why was he still here? What was he waiting for?

Then, it clicked.

He smirked at her, taking a few steps back when she moved closer. Beatrice frowned, "I will not repeat myself. Show me your ID."

"What? You're absolutely sure?" Beatrice heard Morgan react to his call. ". . . the kid. He's the bomber!"

With a swift and decisive motion, Beatrice instinctively reached for her taser, firmly gripping it in her hand. "Put your hands in the air now!"

Sam raised his hands in the air as a taunting smile graced his lips, betraying a mischievous confidence that seemed to fuel his audacity. "For the Country. . ." he blew her a kiss just as he raced down the street.

Without hesitation, Beatrice pursued the bomber into the subway station, her taser now aimed and ready to be fired. Bringing her wrist to her lips, she called, "This is Agent Sterling, does anyone copy? I'm in pursuit of the bomber. Chambers Street Subway Station. Send immediate backup."

Beatrice descended the stairs, alert and cautious, scanning the surroundings for any signs of the bomber. Her heart pounded against her chest, reminding her of the need to rebuild her stamina.

It had been a while since she last faced such intense fieldwork, and the haunting echoes resurfaced, clawing at her thoughts. With closed eyes, she centered herself on the task at hand.

"This is an emergency notification. All train services are suspended until further notice. Please remain calm and exit the station."

"I'm about to enter the train." She swiftly reported in through her communication device.

"Sterling!"

Without a moment's hesitation, she aimed the taser directly at the individual, ready to take immediate action.

"It's me, blondie." Morgan nodded, putting his own gun down and the blonde analyst released a sigh of relief.

"What are you doing here?"

"Backing you up. Where'd he run off?"

"Inside the train."

A surge of determination coursed through Beatrice once more as she observed the dark-skinned man raising his gun once again. Instinctively, she patted his shoulder, conveying a reassurance that they were in the clear. "Careful. We might trigger something." she reminded.

"Got it."

With her finger firmly positioned alongside the frame of her taser, Bea maintained her readiness. Crouching to provide cover for Morgan, she moved with precision as they progressed deeper into the train. Reaching the end of the car, they made a swift descent, jumping down into the open tunnel. It was dark, completely dark and it felt uncertain. Beatrice felt the hairs in her neck rise as she grew apprehensive of the situation. The humidity in the track tunnel hit her like a hand in the face.

Morgan turned on his flashlight and the two of them searched for their target. "Show your face, you son of a bitch! I know you're in here, kid! Show me your face, you coward!" As if on cue, the young man emerged from the darkness and paused when they caught a glimpse of Sam, the culprit of the attack. "You got nowhere to run, man. You hear me? There's nothing down here for you."

"Is that all you see? Huh? Darkness?" taunted Sam, balancing himself on the tracks with no shoes.

"You listen to me, you son of a bitch." ordered Morgan. "You get your ass off those tracks and you put your hands on top of your head. Do it now."

Beatrice's unwavering resolve propelled her forward as she closed the distance between herself and the suspected bomber. "Do it now!"

"You will lose in the end."

"Shut up. Shut your mouth."

"You want to know why? Because you fear what we embrace."

"And what is that? Death?" retorted the blonde, her voice laced with frustration. "You think you're a martyr because you don't fear death? You're not a martyr, Sam. You're a puppet! To them, you're just another disposable being. Will you let them just manipulate you like this?" her tone then lowered with sympathy. "Tell me, Sam: what is the plan?"

Sam's gaze hardened, his expression unwavering. He took a momentary pause, causing Beatrice to hold her breath, hoping for a glimpse into his organization's cause. But instead, Sam's response was curt and resolute. "To make sure it doesn't fail, agent."

"No! Get off the—no, no, no!" Beatrice's shouts were of no use as the young man stepped onto the third rail and electrocuted himself.

Beatrice shut her eyes before inserting her taser back into its holster and reporting in the communications that their target was dead and the tunnel track was clear of any explosives.

"A taser, huh? Why use that when you have a gun?"

Bea's fingertips grazed the side of her glock. A promise she had made to herself long ago echoed in her mind. She would only resort to using her gun when all other options had been exhausted.

"I'll only use a gun," she ascended the platform, her resolve firm and unwavering. "when I intend to kill someone."

Behind her, she sensed Morgan's gaze fix upon her back as if his unwavering stare would pierce through her.

COMING UP FROM the station, the sound of a phone ringing tore through the air and Morgan immediately answered the incoming call. "Yeah, JJ. I'm okay. Sterling from CD's with me. Yeah. The whole place is clear. Saint Barclay's? Okay, got it. We're on our way there now."

The blonde analyst pushed her glasses up, looking up at the dark sky. She wished this night would end now so she could fly back to Virginia and rest.

"You wanna come with me to St. Barclay's? The rest of the team will be there."

Bea nodded in silent agreement, falling into step behind Morgan as they made their way towards his car. As they prepared to depart, she made a request for a laptop to be brought to her. She had a feeling she was going to need it. En route to the hospital, a heavy silence enveloped them. It wasn't long before the agent beside her spoke up. "So, Sterling, huh? Sebastian Sterling? You two are related, right?"

"Yeah, he's my uncle. My dad's Benedict Sterling, one of the, uh—"

"Yeah, I heard about him. He, Gideon, and Rossi started the BAU. They talk about him once in a while." His face contorted with an apologetic expression. "I'm sorry."

The memories resurfaced like a relentless tide. Her father's life had been tragically cut short at the hands of the infamous serial killer known as The Sin Killer and she was only nine years old when she and her older sister, Olivia, lost him. "It's okay. I like it when people talk about him. Makes me feel he's not forgotten."

"That's good. Hey, you're from Counterintelligence, right?"

"Yep."

Morgan appeared visibly taken aback by her response. "CD's responding to terrorist attacks now?"

"We don't. I just happened to be in the area."

The two of them arrived at the hospital and confusion creased the analyst's brow as the Secret Service abruptly blocked their path to the emergency room, demanding to see their credentials and citing a strict bypass protocol.

"If the Secret Service is here," she voiced her perplexity as they drove their way into the emergency area once cleared, "is someone from the White House here receiving treatment?"

"I guess so, yeah. I mean, there would be no other reason for them to be here." Morgan answered her question as they entered the hospital doors. Amidst the flurry of activity, the two of them stood side by side, their eyes scanning the bustling room in search of the wounded people they left earlier and her companion finally approached the nurse's station, showing his credentials.

In the middle of the prevailing chaos, the woman seized a rare moment of respite. Confusion and frustration swirled within her as she clenched her fist. Before she knew it, Beatrice swiftly opened her laptop, driven to gather valuable information from her trusted networks and her team back in Quantico.

She retraced the events that happened so far, analyzing each detail meticulously. The pieces slowly began to align, forming a single word that reverberated in her thoughts: diversion. The question lingered, begging to be answered. A diversion from what? What is their grand plan?

"Uh, Beatrice Sterling?"

As Beatrice glanced over, she noticed a tall, lean man making his way towards her. His long, layered brown hair flowed gracefully, reaching the base of his neck, adding an element of casual elegance to his appearance. The blonde's gaze met his slightly hooded and sunken hazel eyes, which seemed to hold a depth of knowledge and experience.

"Yep?"

"Yes, I'm Dr. Spencer Reid from the BAU. We were told you'd be here." He smiled. "Aren't you Sebastian Sterling's niece? The Executive Assistant Director of the Criminal, Cyber, Response, and Services Branch?"

She extended her hand, offering a shake. "That's me. Beatrice Sterling, Counterintelligence. My uncle's the Director." she introduced herself confidently. As she watched him hesitate for a brief moment upon glancing at her hand, she adjusted her approach, swiftly closing her hand into a fist to redirect her gesture for a friendly fist bump instead. He returned the gesture with enthusiasm. "I take it the rest of your team is here?"

"Bea!"

Beatrice's gaze shifted and caught sight of a short, older man standing before her. A well-groomed beard, peppered with strands of gray, adorned his face, adding a distinguished touch to his appearance. It was in his gray eyes that she noticed a mischievous twinkle, hinting at a playful spirit that time had not dimmed. As their eyes met, the analyst felt a rush of warmth filled her heart as she realized who it was.

"David Rossi?" Beatrice exclaimed, a genuine surprise coloring her voice. "Is that really you? I thought you were retired!"

He shrugged, "I wanted to be back in the game." before enveloping his arms around her. "It's been so long, cara mia. How are you?"

"I'm good. Thriving. You?"

"I'm okay. When I heard they were sending you, I can't say I wasn't thrilled because I was." He broke their hug enough for them to see each other eye to eye then stepped away. "I just wish we saw each other under better circumstances."

"Me too, but here we are."

"I'm sure you've already met Dr. Reid." Dave pointed at a woman who possessed a mane of dark brown hair, styled with a fringe that gently framed her face. "And this is Agent Prentiss."

"Emily! We meet again!" The blonde shook the other woman's hand.

"Beatrice! Hey!"

"You two know each other?"

Beatrice exchanged knowing glances with Emily. "Yeah, we briefly worked together in Yemen," the brunette stated, her voice carrying a mixture of nostalgia.

Beatrice and Emily worked together as a team during their time together in Yemen. Despite the challenges posed by their target's constant movement across the Middle East, Emily's linguistic skills and expertise as a translator proved invaluable.

"I won't have to worry about you all butting heads then." Rossi's lips curved into a small, reassuring smile, just as Morgan approached them, clutching a phone in his hand. "What you got there, Morgan?"

"Sam's cell phone," he curtly replied. "This guy called the same number six times. I'm going to call Garcia to trace it."

"I doubt she'll be able to. Whoever has that number most likely destroyed it already, but it's worth a try." She shrugged. "Give it to me."

Morgan passed the phone to Beatrice. "How are you so sure it's already destroyed? You're a tech analyst?"

Reid interjected, countering Morgan's assumption. "She's not a technical analyst, Morgan," he clarified, his voice filled with conviction. Meanwhile, Beatrice remained focused, diligently typing away on her laptop, determined to trace the elusive location tied to Sam's phone number. "She's a Special Agent in Charge in the Cyber Counterintelligence Section."

Morgan's astonishment was evident as he exclaimed, "Wait, what? She's a C3S analyst? What is she doing here then?"

"Director Sterling assigned her to work with us and I also think it's because one of her skillsets is counterterrorism. She's the one who took down Al-Zarqawi in 2006, and the reason why the world's airline passengers have been restricted in the liquids they can carry on board. She's the one who uncovered the liquid bomb plot."

"You seem to know a lot about her, Reid."

"People talk," he enunciated, shrugging. "Loudly. And I've read about her assessments about 9/11 and London."

"I can hear you two clearly, you know. I'm right here." She jutted her chin towards the phone in her hands. "And I was right. Cell phone number went dead two minutes after Sam died. It has returned to the numbers for reassignment to new customers. I'm going to take a look at this further." She waved the device in the air before glancing up. "And by look, I mean I'm going to take it apart."

"Take it apart?"

With meticulous care, she began scrolling through the contacts and settings, methodically dissecting the device. "I'm trying to see if he rigged this cell phone. I mean, these devices don't just cause explosive materials to go off, unless you add a bunch of explosive-specific circuitry in it. Terrorist groups open up a cell phone and attach their bomb detonator circuit to the phone, typically the little motor that makes the phone vibrate when it is ringing. Then they plant the bomb. Then they dial the number of the phone they hacked, and the electrical signal from the phone tells their detonator to make the bomb explode."

"You guys sure she just works in Cyber?" Morgan commented.

"Are you okay?"

Bea's gaze shifted towards the tall figure before her, a man who exuded an air of authority. The man's face bore the marks of small cuts, remnants of the car bombing that had unfolded earlier. Now clad in an FBI vest, he stood resolute, undeterred by the ordeal he had endured. She took a double take, blinking. How was he just standing up after what happened earlier? "Yeah. I just want to understand why I'm still alive."

"I think the idea was to maim, not to kill."

"Did you identify Sam, the bomber?"

"Garcia put Sam and the other dead unsub into every known database. Nothing."

Beatrice swiftly opened the back of the phone with a pocket knife she hid on her ankle, her fingers deftly maneuvering through the process with practiced ease. With the device now at eye level, she focused intently on the exposed components, her mind sharp and analytical. Prying the battery loose and without even glancing up from her task, the analyst's voice resonated with a mixture of confidence and detachment.

"They're cleanskins," she stated matter-of-factly. "And that means we are dealing with a group of homegrown terrorists who have come from nowhere, without an intelligence trail. No wonder they didn't show up in our radar."

"I'm sorry, who are you?"

"She's from Counterintelligence, Hotch. Director Sterling sent her here."

Beatrice waved her knife without even looking up from the device.

Morgan asked, "So, cleanskins?"

"A person who does not have an existing criminal record or who has not attracted the attention of police or security forces." expounded Reid, catching the blonde's attention. "Terrorist groups and smugglers prefer to subvert these kinds of people, as they offer a lower risk of arousing suspicion. Individuals with prior convictions for importing drugs are more likely to be detained than a person never convicted."

Bea blinked twice, her surprise evident on her face as she absorbed what Reid just said. Her lips hung open momentarily before she shook her head. "That was from my assessment of the London Bombing. Word for word." she said, her voice a mixture of astonishment and curiosity. She raised an eyebrow, studying Reid intently. "You got an eidetic memory?"

Reid's gaze shifted to the floor. "Yeah," he replied quietly, his voice tinged with a hint of reluctance.

"Cool."

"Okay, so we know how terror cells evolve." interjected Rossi. "They learn from one campaign to the next. How to stay off radar, like the London bombers."

"Yeah, but they hit at 8:50 in the morning with a series of coordinated blasts aimed at London's transportation system, and this cell targeted a lone SUV, where the only people on the street are 2 federal agents."

"If it's not multiple targets, it's one target. One target, one bomb." the dark-skinned man concluded.

"Garcia said the device was placed under Kate's SUV. "

"It was likely made using oxidizing agents, including chromates, peroxides, perchlorates, chlorates, and red mercury, all jammed into a device no larger than a cell phone. Imagine what a bomb the size of an oil drum could do."

"Yeah, but to make something that big, you'd need a chemical engineer."

"Like the recently deceased Dr. Azahari Husin, Asia's most-wanted bomb-maker." The older profiler informed. "Authorities dubbed him the, uh, Demolition Man. He treated each bomb like a work of art. One wrong move,he becomes a victim of his own creation. He'll be more revered than all of the people who died as a result of his devices."

"Or the bomb chemist, Assad Sarwar," added Beatrice, her gaze shifting from her cell phone to the laptop as she noticed a sudden email notification flashing on the screen. Without hesitation, she diverted her focus, clicking open the email with a quick motion of her fingers. Her head tilted slightly to the side as her eyes sighted a video attachment at the end. "who thought of liquid explosives. He and his ringleader planned to smuggle hydrogen peroxide in soft drink bottles to carry on board airliners traveling from the UK to the USA and Canada."

Emily deduced, "Stop the bomber, stop the bomb."

"To do that, we need to know how they would deploy something that big."

A troubled expression clouded Bea's face as she began watching the live footage of the bombing at Federal Plaza. "Uh, hey," She swallowed, stepping away from the counter. She picked up the dismantled cell phone, hoping to gather any possible leads or clues that could shed light on the unfolding events.

"And I'm right again," announced Beatrice, making everyone turn their head towards her. "Not only did he use this cell phone to call that number, he also used it to detonate the bomb. So, now, we know he didn't use any other cell phone and disposed of it."

The man from the bombing earlier asked her. "That's Sam's cell phone?"

"Yes. Your bomber dialed one number, six times, every few minutes, and he didn't have a secondary device to detonate. He didn't even call 911 all throughout the time he was with-" She abruptly halted. Her gaze shifted back to the cell phone in her hand, her eyebrows furrowing in deep concentration. Sam had a cell phone signal, but he didn't even try to call the emergency number.

"What is it?" urged the authoritative man before her.

Bea shook her head. "Terrorists usually target places with great significance. Symbols. 9/11. Twin Towers. Other places, the embassies or airplanes. What did they achieve from bombing an SUV? Injuring two federal agents? Nothing."

Rossi encouraged. "Go on, Beatrice."

A mix of shock and realization washed over Beatrice as she voiced her growing suspicions. "What if you and your associate were a diversion?" she questioned aloud and replayed the footage on the laptop screen, her eyes glued to the screen as she studied it intently. "The bomb was activated when you guys were near the SUV, not inside it," she pointed out, her voice filled with conviction. "Sam didn't want you dead, just badly injured. Because then, there would be no need to save you if you were dead."

Her breath hitched in her throat as she turned to face Rossi, her expression a mixture of alarm and understanding. "And so the reason why he kept on calling this number is. . ." Her words trailed off, leaving the implication hanging in the air, as her mind grasped the terrifying truth.

"To make sure the ambulance got to them."

"And in a city on lockdown, an ambulance with its siren blaring and lights on, it's going to make it through every roadblock, virtually uncontested," Emily added, her voice carrying a note of certainty.

"And straight into a hospital with a bypass order on it."

"What?"

"Secret Service has a bypass on this hospital." Beatrice moved away from the table counter with measured steps. Retrieving her own cell phone, she dialed the number for the Command Center, intent on relaying the crucial information. It became evident that the individual in this hospital was the intended target, the symbolic figure. One name immediately came to Beatrice's mind, the person she believed to be at the center of it all.

"Secret Service? Who are they protecting?"

"Yes, we believe there will be a planned attack here in St. Barclay's. Deploy tactical teams here immediately," she urged, her voice laced with urgency as she ended the call. "Sam was calling the paramedic on the ambulance to make sure your partner. . ." She trailed off as she exchanged glances with the man standing beside her. In the chaos of the moment, she realized that she hadn't even asked for his name. "It was part of their plan all along. To drive that ambulance here, using your partner as a diversion, so that no one would question your motive when you enter."

He nodded. "This hospital is their target. Let's go."

Rounding a corner, Beatrice and the rest of the BAU team discovered Secret Service agents strategically positioned near an operating room. Separating herself from the group, she swiftly dialed a number. The phone rang twice before a familiar voice answered on the other end. "Beatrice," her uncle spoke, his voice uncertain.

"Who's here in St. Barclay's?"

"What?"

"Uncle, you called me for this because you know someone from the White House is receiving treatment near the explosion. You wanted me to ensure they're not the target, right?" Beatrice's voice was resolute, slight guilt gnawing at her as she remembered her demand for first responders earlier.

". . . Yes."

"Who is it?"

"I cannot tell you."

"It's the president, is it?" She was met with silence. "Oh my god,"

"Hey!" Morgan called the attention of one of the Secret Service agents. "Who you got in here?"

"Why is that information important to you?"

"The ambulance I drove in here. . . where is it now?"

"In the basement. Why?"

Breathless, Beatrice concluded the call and dashed down the spiraling flight of stairs. With adrenaline coursing through her veins, she instinctively reached for her taser, her eyes scanning the scene upon reaching the parking lot. The analyst approached the ambulance and with a swift motion, she flung open the rear doors. Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes beheld the dreaded sight—a ticking bomb.

Jumping into the driver's seat, her hands moved swiftly, manipulating the wires. She had to set her plan in motion—to drive the bomb away from the hospital. The woman's intense focus shattered as the driver's door was wrenched open. Startled, she reached for her taser, only to be met with the astonished face of Morgan.

"Sterling?" he furrowed his eyebrows, holding a phone to his ear. "What are you doing here?"

"Trying to get this ambulance out of here." retorted Beatrice, cursing once when she couldn't spark the two wires she was holding. "What do you think?

"I'm coming with you."

". . . Not where I want to be right now. Garcia, take this down for me. FDNY 108. Yeah, I'm fine. Just track it for me."

Beatrice caught a fleeting glimpse of him through the rearview mirror before her attention shifted back to the urgent task at hand. "Can you dismantle it?"

"I will try."

"Garcia, how long can you keep jamming the cell phone lines? 'Cause we're gonna have to get this ambulance out of here. No. As soon as the airways are clear, this thing's going up." announced Morgan, pinning his cell phone between his ear and shoulder. "Okay. Sterling, Garcia has already remotely accessed the cell phone grid we're in and jammed all the frequencies. We only have like three minutes to drive this thing into an open area. Can you do that?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Garcia, listen to me. I need you to find us an area of town where we can drive this thing, and you tell everybody, you hear me, everybody, that we're coming. Yes, I'm with an agent from Counterintelligence."

"Put her on loudspeaker, Morgan." ordered the analyst, sitting up once the engine roared to life.

"All right, talk to us, Garcia."

"Okay, head North and floor it. I'll tell you guys where to turn."

"Got it," Bea declared, pressing down on the pedal and shifting gears, propelling the ambulance forward through the parking lot. A startled yelp escaped her lips as bullets struck the side view mirror and the back doors, forcing her to duck her head and seek cover.

"What was that?"

"It's nothing. Just keep talking!"

Weaving through the bustling streets of New York, Beatrice clung to the voice on the phone, following every instruction. She pushed the ambulance to its limits, its siren blaring to clear the path before her.

"How are we doing, Garcia?"

"One minute, fifty seconds. You're still several streets away from Central Park."

"Can we make it?" the question echoed, fueling the woman's determination. Her hands tightened on the wheel as she executed a precise maneuver, causing the tires to screech in protest against the asphalt.

"We will. Take over for me," she declared with resolve, and with a leap of faith, Beatrice entrusted her companion with the wheel.

Climbing to the back of the ambulance, her heart pounding in her chest, Beatrice focused on the task at hand. Time was running out, but she refused to succumb to despair. Contemplating her options, she considered the option of triggering a citywide electrical blackout, plunging the entire metropolis into darkness. But, that would pose more potential dangers to the city. The president's life also hung in the balance, as the surgical procedure required an uninterrupted power supply.

She swiftly snatched the cell phone from Morgan's grasp, "Hey, Garcia, right? Listen, what's your computer's operating system?"

"Uh, it's a Linux OS with six gigs of RAM, and dual quad core 3Gh processor, with a GeForce. . ."

"8800 Ultra extreme vid-card and a Cisco ASA 5500 firewall. Yeah, that won't be enough to hack into a satellite. " Beatrice finished her statement with a frown as she dialed a number in her cell phone.

"I'm sorry, did you just say hack into a satellite?"

After a brief pause, a familiar voice answered the call, saying, "Yo, Ethan Harper speaking."

"Ethan, it's me, Beatrice. I need you to hack into a satellite for me."

"You need me to what?"

"I need you to delay a satellite's movement with my computer."

"But that's illegal."

"That's why you're doing it with my computer." She retorted. "Look, we don't have much time to talk. We have a bomb here and it's going to blow up as soon as this cell phone gets a signal."

"Okay, okay! I'm already in front of your computer, boss. What do you need me to do?"

"Locate the satellite the cell towers around my area are broadcasting signals to, and access the global positioning system," The analyst set aside the cell phone and set her eyes on the ticking bomb, continuing to guide her colleague on how to break through the authentication mechanisms and bypass firewalls without raising an alarm. Perhaps, she may be able to find a way to dismantle the explosives without triggering it, but it seemed almost impossible. "You got that? We will trick the satellite into mistaking you for the ground station."

"Forty seconds."

"Can we really do that, Bea? I mean, can't we just jam the signals?"

"Most satellites nowadays employ frequency hopping techniques to make it harder for hackers to jam signals, and ground stations would instantly block us once they know we're trying to jam their sat." she explained, her voice resolute as she held on tightly to the sides of the vehicle, bracing herself as Morgan executed another sharp turn. "Are you in yet? If we can't gain access to the control systems, we'll have to resort to taking over the up-link."

"Up-link?" Ethan's voice rose with a mix of astonishment and concern. "But that's nearly impossible to achieve! You know, we could just call the ground station and-"

"No," she interrupted. "They'll have to go ask permission from several personnel, and it will take too long. By the time they act, this bomb will have already detonated. We'll only delay it for a minute and a half. They'll just think it's an error."

"Twenty-five seconds."

"Ethan,"

"Almost there. . . yes!" he exclaimed, a note of triumph in his voice. "They really need to encrypt their data, I swear to god. I really thought it wasn't going to work."

Relief flooded over her. This had bought them precious time, enabling them to steer the bomb towards a safe area. She thanked him for his help and told him she'd see him when she gets back.

"You've got yourselves one more minute and fifty-three seconds," Garcia declared.

Morgan nodded. "Good. Now, where are we, Garcia?"

"Four more streets before Central Park. Turn left now and floor it."

Beatrice quickly settled into the passenger's seat, her heart pounding with adrenaline as she watched Morgan navigate the road. She braced herself, holding onto the ceiling handle with a fierce grip. "Come on. Come on!" Her prayers echoed in her mind, a desperate plea for them to reach the clearing in time.

"Signal's coming back online. Twenty seconds to full coverage," Garcia's voice crackled with urgency through the device. At that very moment, the ambulance reached the gates of the park. "Morgan, drive to the opening and then get the hell out!"

"Not yet."

"There, there! Drive it there!" Beatrice urged, her eyes locked onto a clearing devoid of trees, benches and people, and her companion steered the ambulance towards the opening.

"Why does it always have to be you? Why do you always have to do this?"

"There's something I really want you to know, Garcia."

"Twelve seconds. Save it. Just get out."

"No, no, no, we're not quite there yet."

"Ten. . . Morgan. . ."

"Nine, eight. . ."

"Just listen to me. You know what you are, Garcia?"

"Morgan, please," the voice on the other end trembled, the desperation seeping through the crackling static. "Morgan!" The connection flickered, swallowed by the chorus of static, but in that crucial moment, the man at the wheel grabbed hold of the cell phone. With a practiced motion, she reached up and removed her eyeglasses.

The woman leapt out, her body propelled by urgency, just as the countdown reached its climax. Five seconds—just a heartbeat—separated her from the impending explosion.

In a catastrophic symphony of flames and debris, the ambulance erupted into a blazing inferno behind them. The intense heat washed over them, the roaring flames licking at the surrounding air. The once-familiar vehicle now stood as a charred shell, billowing smoke and flickering embers.

Beatrice's senses were overwhelmed. The acrid smell of burning fuel stung her nostrils, the intense heat seeping into her skin. A dull ache resonated through her body. Exhaustion weighed heavily upon her, her limbs feeling heavy and drained. As she continued lying down on the cool grass, the woman allowed herself a small, tired smile.

Bea mustered her strength and attempted to rise, but her limbs felt heavy and weak, her knees threatening to buckle beneath her. Just as she thought she might collapse, two familiar hands reached out, providing the support she needed. Morgan's steady presence steadied her, his touch reassuring.

The analyst leaned against Morgan, their arms wrapped around each other's shoulders for support. As he dialed a number on his phone, her gaze shifted to him. She watched him with a mix of anticipation and wonder as he made the call.

"Garcia. . . I'll tell you what you are to me," Morgan's voice carried a weight of emotion, capturing Beatrice's undivided attention. "You're my God-given solace,"

As they gingerly navigated their way out of the explosion site, the blonde wore her glasses, her attention now turning to Morgan.

"So, hacking a satellite, huh? Who are you, really, Agent Sterling?" his voice reached her ears, laced with amusement. The analyst felt a flicker of a smile tug at the corners of her lips.

She shrugged, "Just your regular cyber analyst."

————

and that was an intense first chapter! i'm actually so proud of this since my girl, beatrice, is so into the action immediately! proving she isn't just a sunshine beam, but so much more! we will get to see how goofy, clumsy, and intense she can get as the story progresses. btw, she and aaron get to officially meet in the next chapter and beatrice is a certified gemini.