CHAPTER EIGHT: GUY IN PHILOSOPHY CLASS NEEDS TO SHUT THE FUCK UP

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THERE WAS SOMETHING going on.

And she felt it in the air as soon as she stepped inside the bullpen, a subtle shift in the atmosphere that signaled something was amiss. She tried to decipher the underlying tension, and couldn't help but wonder what had transpired in her absence. Her blonde curls bounced wildly around her as she hurriedly made her way to her office, the weight of the files in her arms a constant reminder of her tardiness.

Beatrice's heart sank as she glanced at the wall clock, realizing she was already an hour late. Chiara's tearful plea earlier made it difficult for her to leave immediately in her uncle's care and so she had spent precious time comforting her niece, ensuring she was calm and settled before finally departing. Striking a balance between personal and professional life was a constant challenge for someone working for the FBI to navigate.

As soon as she swung her office door open, she was immediately met with Hotch's stern question, "Where's Sterling?" He stood in the middle of the room, his hands on his hips, and a deep furrow in his eyebrows, indicating his clear disapproval. Kevin Lynch, Penelope's boyfriend, was also present, and she assumed he was there for either assistance or to visit his girlfriend. Beatrice could feel the weight of her boss's gaze on her, and she braced herself for whatever he was about to say next

"I'm here."

She placed the stack of paperwork on her desk, trying to catch her breath as she faced Hotchner's stern expression. The unit chief turned his attention to the other male, addressing him with authority. "Kevin."

"Yes, sir?"

"She's busy now."

Kevin looked slightly taken aback, but he quickly caught on to Hotch's message. "Oh, right, right. Sorry," he stammered before making a swift exit.

Once they were alone, their team leader wasted no time in giving Garcia orders, his focus shifting back to Beatrice. "Sterling, a word?"

Beatrice's emotions churned as she faced his intense gaze. She sensed concern, a hint of frustration, but also an understanding that they were all dealing with a demanding workload. Bracing herself, she followed him, her heart pounding as she anticipated the conversation. "You're late."

"Good morning to you too, sir."

He shot her a disapproving glare.

"I'm sorry I was late today," she offered sincerely, hoping to diffuse the situation.

"Do better tomorrow."

Her tense shoulders relaxed slightly. The past few days had been a whirlwind of tasks and responsibilities, including overseeing Jordan as the temporary communications liaison and handling paperwork alongside Hotch. The revelation of her boss's workload had come as a surprise, and it made her admire his ability to maintain a work-life balance, even if it meant sacrificing some personal time.

"I will, sir."

Hotch paused in his tracks, and she faced him. "Todd came up to me earlier asking about her job performance," he said, his voice low.

The analyst raised an eyebrow, surprised by his revelation. "Really? I just had a talk with her yesterday. Told her today's her first day going solo. I decided to remove her training wheels because she's been doing okay for the last two days already. You think someone said something to her?"

"I'm not sure."

Bea decided to take action. "I'll go ask her how she's doing. It's important for her to feel supported and confident in her role."

Jordan Todd, in her opinion, was diligent, persistent, and determined—qualities that undoubtedly contributed to her success as a Counterterrorism agent. Yet, there was also an air of dominance and self-possession around her, characteristics that might lead to potential clashes with the rest of the team. This was not surprising to Beatrice, though, as she knew that individuals from Todd's field often had such strong personalities to navigate through intense situations. Nonetheless, she hoped that they could find a way to work together harmoniously and utilize each other's strengths effectively.

"Thanks."

"No problem!" the woman chirped, always ready to help. "Oh, yeah. Did a case come up?"

"Dave and Reid are bringing in a guy who said he killed seven women."

"Murder or homicide?" she wondered, crossing her arms.

"Possibly homicide," Hotch clarified, his hands finding their way to his hips-a telltale sign of stress or deep thought. "He brought photos of the women he killed, and Dave had already sent them to Garcia for analysis."

"Did he say why he did it?"

He shook his head, his expression showing his uncertainty.

"It's quite odd for him to surrender like that," Beatrice mused aloud, sharing her doubts.

"I'm also doubting his credibility," Hotch admitted, "but we'll know what to do with him after the initial questioning."

"Okay, then I'll go help Garcia identify the victims, run them through the database. See if we can find out who they are."

"No," her colleague interjected firmly. "I want you to run the guy's fingerprints on Ident once they arrive. Find out if he's in the system."

"Got it."

"Dave said the guy has five more live victims somewhere we could save in nine hours."

"Jesus," Beatrice breathed out. "I'll handle it, Hotch."

"Chris Thompson was arrested this morning for two counts of indecent assault and three counts of sexual harassment."

The analyst's mind raced as she heard the name, memories of the night in Vegas flooding back. "Chris Thompson, Chris Thompson. . ." she repeated. A sense of satisfaction washed over her as she realized he was finally facing justice. Of course, she couldn't tell Hotch about her involvement; she had discreetly hacked into his cellphone and gathered camera footage from the places he frequented, anonymously sending the evidence to the victims. "Huh, looks like God finally heard me."

As she noticed him narrowing his eyes at her, she became defensive. "Why are you looking at me like that? Do you seriously think I had something to do with it?"

His response was noncommittal. "I don't know. You tell me."

Frustration tinged Bea's voice as she clarified, "I'm telling you now, SSA Hotchner. My hands are clean."

My hands are clean. More like, they can't trace it back to me.

And she was sure it couldn't be traced back to her because she had taken great care to cover her tracks. Just last week, she learned from her contact in the Las Vegas police about the five women who claimed to be harassed and assaulted by Chris Thompson. She reached out to the women, offering her help and gaining their consent to gather evidence against their harasser.

Late at night, she meticulously printed and organized their text messages, creating a compelling portfolio of evidence. She knew the importance of maintaining their anonymity and protecting their identities, so she took great care in handling their personal information. Additionally, Beatrice collected surveillance footages from the places where Thompson frequented, ensuring they were safely stored in a flash drive.

She then anonymously sent the evidence to the police, ensuring that justice would be served without any risk of her involvement being discovered.

"Are they?"

She nodded.

"Wait, how did you know that was his name, by the way? Were you—" she then inquired, hoping to understand how Hotch had come across the information.

Hotch turned his back and entered his office, his voice trailing back to her. "You weren't the first person your contact called."

The blonde couldn't help but feel a mix of emotions at his response. On one hand, she was slightly surprised that her boss had been aware of the situation, keeping an eye on the man who had caused her distress. On the other hand, she felt touched by the fact that he had quietly looked out for her, even without her knowing.

"Oh, really. Okay," she replied with a deadpan expression, carefully masking her emotions. Leaning casually against her boss's office door frame, she brought up another matter. "By the way, I need to go over the monthly expenses with you after this case. Budget hearing's around the corner, and you know I am presenting it. I don't want to fuck it up."

"Just come by the office after," the man replied, his tone composed. "Oh, and we need to work on that operational report—"

She couldn't help but grin, interrupting him with a hint of pride. "Already finished it last night, sir. I'll just leave it at your desk for you to check."

He paused for a moment, seemingly taken aback by her reply. "Alright."

As she walked away, she couldn't ignore the subtle changes in their working relationship. Ever since Vegas, their dynamics had shifted. They no longer argued and often discussed decisions together like partners in workplaces should. She knew she made Hotch's life lighter and more efficient with their divided tasks. Though he might not readily admit it, she could sense that he was slowly starting to trust her abilities and judgment. They were becoming true partners in their job, with one shared goal: to save lives and protect the team from the bureaucracy that often plagued their work.

Holding her club sandwich in one hand, Bea strolled towards Jordan's office, her anticipation building as she swung the door open with a cheerful demeanor. She flashed her colleague her most radiant smile. "Hey, catch!" With a deft toss, she sent the food flying, and the liaison effortlessly caught it. "Nice!"

"What's this?"

"Just a good luck on your solo day sandwich," the blonde said playfully, winking and giving a small finger gun. "So, how was your day?"

"You're the second person to come in here and ask me about my day."

"I'm sorry—"

Jordan raised her hand to reassure her. "I'm okay, ma'am. Thank you for trusting me to go on my own today."

Beatrice beamed. "You've got this, Jordan. Just trust your instincts and remember, we've all got your back. Don't hesitate to ask if you need anything or if you're unsure about anything. You're never alone in this."

The other woman shrugged. "I know. I'm going to tell you what I told Emily earlier. I'm just gonna manifest happiness and calm for the rest of the day."

Bea chuckled at Jordan's optimism, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Manifesting happiness and calm in the BAU? Jesus, that would be the day," she replied, half-jokingly. "It's almost always a warzone here."

"Hey," Jordan's soft voice caught her attention once again. you and Hotch are going to tell me if my performance is not up to par, right?"

"Of course, we'll tell you! We're going to be honest and support you in any way we can."

"Thanks, ma'am."

"Yeah, well, if you need anything, I'm just around here," Beatrice said sincerely. "Actually, I think we will be having a case soon. Hotch told me that Rossi and Reid will be bringing someone in. Expect a call within this time."

"Got it."

Beatrice handed the report to Hotch, her eyes flickering with concern as she listened to the distressing news being broadcasted in the bustling bullpen. "Earlier this morning, police were contacted and informed that Kaylee Robinson, who ran a daycare center out of her home, had been abducted along with four children. . ."

Reid and Rossi arrived with the unsub in custody just as the information unfolded.

"He said there were five more victims we could save?" Hotch immediately moved into action, his voice commanding the attention of the team.

"What's going on?"

"A woman was abducted this morning in Loretto, Virginia. She runs a home daycare center. She had four children with her." Jordan informed the team, causing Beatrice to clench her jaw.

"They're all missing."

"All five."

Rossi directed his attention to the unsub with a sharp intensity. "Are those the five more?" he demanded, his voice holding an edge of anger.

"Are you pissed off yet, David?"

Oh, it was going to be a long, arduous day.

"YOUR FACE. . . IT is not perfect."

Beatrice's curiosity piqued as she observed the man before her. He had a peculiar air of confidence, almost arrogance, as he moved gracefully around the interrogation table, his eyes fixed on her like a predator sizing up its prey. Rossi and Derek, profilers as they were, appeared equally intrigued by the unfolding interaction. She maintained her composure, leaning against the back of her chair and crossing her arms, refusing to let his intimidating presence rattle her. "Oh, yeah? And why is that, Professor. . . Rothschild?"

"Rothschild," he answered with a small nod, as if confirming his identity. He didn't demand her name; he wanted her to reveal it herself, so she did.

"I'm Sterling."

"Sterling, a beautiful face is one that is in perfect proportion. Symmetry is a key identifier of beauty. When a line is divided into two parts in a ratio of—"

"—one is to one point six hundred eighteen. The golden ratio, I know. Leonardo Da Vinci used it in Monalisa, even Boticelli. I get it. It creates an appealing proportion." The blonde cut him off mid-sentence, her frustration evident in the twitch of her eye. "So, let me get this straight, I'm not beautiful because the ratio of the top of my head to my chin versus the width of my head should be one is to one point six hundred eighteen?"

"Yes, but you are somewhat. . . agreeable."

She wanted to slam his head on the table.

She chose not to.

Bea had encountered a lot of things already as an FBI agent, but receiving a backhanded compliment during an interrogation was a new one. "Tell me, is this how you selected your previous victims, professor? Women with symmetrical faces?"

He smirked. "You actually have the intellectual capacity to grasp what's going on here."

"I mean, I graduated from MIT when I was sixteen and got my Master's degree at eighteen because I was bored. So, yeah, I'm not that blonde," she deadpanned. This guy's condescending attitude was pushing all the wrong buttons, and she could feel her patience wearing thin.

Before she could continue, he interjected with a dismissive eye roll. "Oh, that is a myth," he said with disdain. "Your hair color has nothing to do with your intellect."

"I know. It has actually been proven that women with blonde hair are less likely to have extremely low IQ than women with other hair colors."

Beatrice silently praised the universe for gracing her with Dr. Spencer Reid's presence. After all, where else could she indulge in her daily dose of intriguing tidbits?

"You know your facts." He only smiled as he enunciated, "You do know it's not your fault, right, Sterling?", his tone patronizing. "Genes play a role in determining the beauty of a person's face, as do intelligence. Your face is your face." His words were like daggers, hitting deep within Beatrice. "Your IQ is your IQ. It's not education, it's genetics."

The analyst's frustration simmered as she listened to Paul Rothschild's delusional monologue. It was clear to her that he suffered from a severe case of narcissism, and his God complex only amplified his twisted beliefs. He craved attention, seeking validation for his warped sense of superiority. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes at his arrogance, choosing to remain composed, even if his words struck a nerve.

Rossi held up an odd-looking pendant he had discovered hidden inside Rothschild's polo. "What's this?"

His intense gaze remained fixed on her, and the woman couldn't help but feel vexed under his scrutiny. Why did she always seem to attract the attention of psychopaths? It was as if they were drawn to her, finding her intriguing for reasons she couldn't quite fathom. She didn't see herself as anything special, just an ordinary woman doing her job.

Derek snapped his fingers in front of the unsub to bring his attention back to him. "Hey, eyes on me. What's this?"

"I need to explain what a pendant is?"

"What does it mean?"

"Mean? It's just something I found at a fair."

"Sit down."

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you. You have the right to have an attorney present." Derek recited the Miranda rights to Rothschild, his eyes never leaving him. "If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand your rights—"

"Genetics is the key to everything, David." vocalized the unsub about genetics. He seemed fixated on the idea that one's abilities and worth were predetermined by their genetic makeup. "If you're not born with the right-"

Before he could continue his ramblings, Morgam slammed his hands on the table, silencing the professor and demanding his full attention. "Do you understand your rights?" Derek enunciated each word deliberately, his glare piercing through the unsub's ego.

The professor's expression faltered for a moment, caught off guard by the sudden shift in demeanor from the profiler. It was clear that he was used to being in control, but they weren't going to let him manipulate the situation.

"Perfectly. I can have a lawyer." And Bea thought it would be the end of the conversation, but he continued to taunt her. "No, thank you. Some games are just intended to be played by higher intellects," he said, his eyes locked on hers. "Do you work in the BAU?"

"Uh, n—"

Rossi intervened, "Don't answer that question. Take up your things and leave."

"It's a shame you're leaving me with them, Sterling." the unsub remarked, just as she picked up her laptop from the table and left the room. "You, Dr. Reid, and I would have a more productive conversation."

As she saw Reid and Hotchner waiting by the one-way mirror, she couldn't contain her irritation any longer and began to rant, "Listen, I may not be the prettiest girl you have all ever seen, but what I do have is a taser and a knife I can use on this. . . Colonel Sanders looking unsub! Just say yes."

"Colonel Sanders?"

Beatrice shrugged. "His get-up reminds me of that Kentucky Fried Chicken guy, okay?"

Reid's response caught her off guard. "He's right, you know."

"That I'm ugly?"

"No." the younger man glanced at her like she had grown a third head. "That your face is asymmetrical,"

Hotch commented. "He seems to be more interested in conversing with you and Dr. Reid."

She rolled her eyes, dismissing the comment. "Yeah, whatever. He's definitely on my assholes I seriously want to shoot but I can't because I work for the FBI list!"

"You have a list like that?"

Beatrice let out a sigh of exasperation. "No, Reid, baby, no. But seriously, he managed to compliment and insult me all at the same time. I have never wanted to punch anyone in the face more than right now." She scrunched her nose in annoyance. "But, I get it. I'm not that pretty, and he probably only continued to talk to me because he thinks I'm smart."

Reid opened his mouth to say something, but the woman shook her head, not in the mood for further discussion on the matter. "Let's just focus on the case. We need to find Kaylee Robinson and the kids before it's too late."

". . . Bring Dr. Reid back with you."

"I never have any normal fans."

Beatrice patted his shoulder reassuringly. "I'm a fan, and I'm normal. . ." She leaned in and whispered, "except on Wednesdays. They drive me crazy."

Hotchner, still focused on the unsub, asked, "How many cups of coffee have you had?"

"I just had my fifth cup of black coffee before this whole thing. I've been awake since two in the morning."

"Decaffeinate, Sterling,"

The blonde internally cringed, fully aware of how talkative and hyperactive she could become after consuming lots of coffee. Just the other day, fueled by caffeine, she had offered to fix every broken thing in the bullpen and was ready to tackle issues on other floors until Hotchner intervened and told her to go home. "Will do, sir."

"This guy loves the attention." announced Derek as soon as he entered the observation room.

"He has a god complex." concluded the older profiler. "Sooner or later, he'll give up something important about Kaylee and the kids. Guys like him always do."

"Before he hurts them?"

"One forty-five. He said we had 'til ten."

"We need a button to push."

"The seven original homicides could give us some leverage."

Rossi turned back to watch the unsub. "He says we'll never find any evidence so he has nothing to worry about on them."

"He made a point of saying there are no bodies, no physical evidence."

"We just have to show that a crime was committed." Hotchner made a point. "We can do that circumstantially."

"We need to identify the original seven women. Going back in there with names just might shake him up."

Reid asked, "How do we do that?"

"Reverse profiling."

Their leader explained, "Learn everything we can about him and his methods and then profile it back to what kind of victim he would choose and from where."

"From the unsub to the victim."

"Well, he implied earlier that he chooses his victims with symmetrical faces." offered Beatrice as she absorbed their conversation. "So, that could help."

"We'll confirm that when we identify the victims." Rossi nodded, stepping out of the room. "Go finish running his prints on Ident, Beatrice. We need to know everything about this guy."

Bea scanned through the data on her laptop. "Alright, but I have a question," she piped up, looking over at her teammates. "Can I punch him later? I mean, he'd make a great punching bag. I haven't punched anyone since Colorado."

No one responded.

She continued, undeterred by the lack of enthusiasm from her colleagues. "Okay, but can I tase him?" she suggested instead, turning around and carrying her device in her arms. "I mean, we can just turn off the camera recording—guys? Guys!"

They left her behind.

"I love my team."

"GUYS, SHE MOVED."

Beatrice's eyes widened as she noticed Kaylee Robinson swiftly swapping places with one of the children, as if shielding them from an unseen danger. They had learned from their profiling that the unsub meticulously planned his actions and had a specific preference for targeting brunettes.

She glanced at Hotch, who had witnessed Rothschild's reaction earlier when he opened the door and saw Emily, implying that he was uncomfortable around women with brown hair. Rossi and Reid deduced that the unsub engaged in conversations with Beatrice because he underestimated her and considered her not his "type." They also noted the unsub's claim that he was born with an extra Y chromosome which he believed made him into a killer. However, they knew this theory had been debunked long ago, and it held no scientific validity.

"She put herself closest to the end, farthest from the camera." Reid said.

Prentiss asked, "Why?"

Hotchner offered a possible explanation, "Maybe she knows something we don't, like she doesn't have much time. Let's continue."

Minutes before they had started to narrow down the list of missing women, Garcia received an email from an unknown sender containing a link to live footage of the victims. The footage showed them wearing gas masks, each held in specific positions by unseen restraints.

"Uh, Lindsay Connor," Emily read the name of one of the missing women. "She was last seen stepping out to have a cigarette while getting a blown tire fixed."

"Doesn't sound like something routine."

Beatrice's eyes scanned the paper, and her expression shifted from curiosity to realization. "I think this one does," she announced, looking up from the document. "Lisa McDaniel, Saluda, went missing early 2008 while on her daily jog."

Garcia acknowledged, "Oh, you're good. She does fit."

With the addition of Lisa, the count reached eight, including Kaylee. Hotchner clicked a button on Bea's laptop, displaying the faces of the missing women. "They're all incredibly beautiful."

Reid chimed in, "Almost unnaturally."

The analyst leaned back against her chair. "Son of a bitch really did choose brunettes with symmetrical faces to be his victims." She turned to Hotch, bitterness evident in her eyes. "Think it has something to do with his girlfriend or something?"

"Uh, what are the chances that three out of our seven victims are from the same town?" Garcia mused aloud, displaying the information on the board.

Emily quickly picked up on the clue and asked, "What's the population of Saluda?" Reid, always the walking database, replied, "Middlesex county is small, but it's near water. A lot of people have boats there and weekend homes."

"And two from Gloucester point."

Just then, a phone beeped, and Reid retrieved a message from Morgan. "Morgan just sent this to me from the Robinson house," he announced, passing the device to Hotchner. He recited, "One, one, two, three, five."

"Does that mean something?"

The woman peered at the image sent to Reid's phone. "Why is the Greek letter—oh my god," she gasped, her eyes widening in realization. Her gaze shifted between the board and the images of the victims on the screen, the pieces falling into place. Who would have thought that this case would involve a mathematical sequence?

"Can you tell me what's going on, Sterling?"

"Holy shit!" Bea exclaimed. "That's why he was so obsessed with perfection!"

Hotch looked puzzled, prompting her to walk over to the board. "That's the Greek letter Phi! Phi, guys! It's related to algebra, geometry-come on!" She pointed at the names of the victims. "One, one, two, three, five! Those are the first—"

"—five numerals in the Fibonacci sequence!" Garcia finished.

"Bingo! Remember the Golden Ratio? It's a design concept based on using the Fibonacci sequence to create visually appealing proportions. I won my school's Mathletics competition four times in a row so I know what I am talking about."

As the youngest profiler of the team returned to the room, he backed up her claims. "Bea's right about the concept," Reid affirmed, "Can you put the map of Virginia up on the screen?"

"On it," Garcia responded promptly, displaying the map.

Reid held up the pendant they had found on Rothschild earlier and started elaborating, "It's an irrational number known as 'phi.' It's based on the ratio of line segments to each other and of the whole."

Bea chimed in, reinforcing his point, "It's called the Golden Ratio. The one I just told you all about."

"Golden rat—that's the web address, goldenrat.net!"

As the youngest profiler continued his explanation about the Golden Ratio and its significance in art and nature, Bea found herself nodding along, feeling a sense of validation in her earlier observation about the unsub's obsession with perfection and symmetry. His rambling, though fascinating, was now leading them off track, and Hotchner redirected the focus back to finding the missing women.

"The whole concept is represented by this pendant, including the logarithmic spiral created by using a Fibonacci sequence," he said, bringing the team's attention back to the case. "Follow me on this,"

Beatrice took a deep breath, ready to contribute. "Pull up all the towns that the missing women are from," she requested, and Garcia promptly complied.

Reid continued, "We had one in Richmond, one in Dinwiddie, then two in Gloucester Point, and three in Saluda, and finally five in Loretto this morning." He pointed out the numbers. "One, one, two, three, five is a Fibonacci series," Reid explained further. "Each number added to the number before it. It's what his ticks mean. He's subconsciously counting off the Fibonacci sequence in his head over and over again."

"Now geometrically, it can be expressed as a spiral," Reid continued. "It's called a Logarithmic Spiral. Can you put the spiral up on the map?" he asked Garcia.

Garcia worked her magic, overlaying the spiral on the map of Virginia. The brightest of them then had another idea. "Now make it bigger. Bigger, just a little bit bigger. Stop, stop, stop," he directed, and the image took shape. "The pendant is like a key," he concluded, placing the pendant in the middle of the screen.

As the team continued to analyze the pattern, Beatrice's eyes fell on the name of the city on the map. "Chester, Virginia," she read aloud. "That's where they are."

Hotchner turned to Reid, seeking confirmation. "You're sure about this, Reid?"

"With his level of obsession with these numbers, the ratio will have permeated his entire life." Reid explained. "If we took a city map of Chester, the location where Kaylee and her children are being held will follow one of these points on that map as well. The ratio works with any scale at all."

Without wasting any time, Hotchner swiftly gave orders to the team. "Morgan and Todd are closer. Garcia, call them and tell them to get to Chester," he instructed, his voice decisive. "Reid and Prentiss, get a city map and meet us on the ground floor. Sterling, you're with me. We're gonna get a chopper ready."

Bea's heart pounded as she nodded and quickly changed her elegant heels into comfortable shoes. She couldn't afford to wear a dress today; practicality saved her from worrying about her outfit in this critical situation. Stepping outside, she met Hotchner, who looked visibly distressed, his hand resting on his hip and the other on his forehead.

"We have a problem."

Beatrice gathered her thoughts, tying her hair into a ponytail. "What is it?"

Hotch explained, "All the available choppers in Tactical are currently deployed to D.C. I'm trying to see if HRT or SWAT can assist, but it might take some time."

Bea couldn't help but wonder why all the Tactical helicopters were away. However, she put that thought aside, focusing on the urgency of the situation at hand. Time was of the essence, and they couldn't afford to waste any more of it.

"Do you need my help?"

"Do you know someone?"

Unyielding, she locked eyes with him and asserted, "Hotch, do you. . . want me to help?" She knew his pride often got in the way of seeking assistance, and she wanted to ensure he was genuinely open to it. Though they worked well together, she understood the chain of command, and he was still the team leader who would make the final decisions. "I need to hear it from you."

Hotch gave her a decisive nod. "Get us a chopper in fifteen minutes."

"Make that eight." She seized her cellphone and strode away, dialing a number from her contacts. "Colonel Rhodes! It's me, Beatrice. I was wondering if you could do me a favor?"

THE DISTANT SOUND of thunderous rotor blades filled the air, Beatrice's eyes lit up with anticipation as she peered through the glass window. Standing just inside the back doors of the FBI Headquarters, she witnessed the majestic arrival of a military chopper descending gracefully from the heavens. The wind kicked up debris in a wild dance as the aircraft landed with remarkable precision.

"Is that the U.S. Marines?" asked Emily, her voice filled with astonishment. The words MARINES emblazoned on the helicopter's side gleamed brightly in the sunlight, a symbol of unwavering commitment to the mission.

"Wait, that-that is a Bell UH-1Y Venom." declared Spencer, blinking confused. "Those are only deployed for assault support and rescuing personnel in the most difficult conditions."

As Hotch shot Beatrice a questioning look, she met his gaze with a smile. With her hands raised in a gesture of defense, she knew she had just accomplished something they never expected.

"What? You told me to get us a chopper in ten minutes. This was the best I could do," retorted Beatrice, her tone unapologetic.

"If this was your best, then what did you consider as the worst?"

"Dr. Spencer Reid," With a confident glint in her eyes, she swung open the doors as the chopper's roaring blades finally landed. "some things are best kept secret."

As they approached the helicopter, a tall, blue-eyed pilot greeted them as he gracefully descended from the aircraft. "SAC Sterling?" he yelled through the loud rotor blades, offering his hand for a shake. "Corporal Rogers of the U.S. Marines! And with me is Private First Class Barnes and Carter!"

Beatrice shook his hand firmly. "Please, just call me Beatrice!" she replied with a warm smile. "Thanks for coming in!"

"No problem! I volunteered as soon as I heard!" Corporal Rogers beamed. He then assisted them all inside the helicopter, and she eagerly wore the aviation headset, seating beside the soldier. "So, what's your business in Chester, ma'am?" His voice resonated through the communications.

"We're going to save five people from a psychopath with a god complex and an obsession for mathematical ratios," the woman replied, her tone firm and resolute.

"No shit?"

"No shit, Corporal."

"We've got no time to waste then. Let's move, Rogers!" He hit the wall near the cockpit to signal for takeoff, his voice echoing the woman's urgency. With a powerful roar, the helicopter lifted off the ground, soaring through the sky towards their destination.

"Corporal, these are Agents Prentiss, Hotchner, and Reid of the Behavioral Analysis Unit."

"Nice meeting you, ma'am and sirs."

The team leader returned the gesture with a nod. "Likewise, Corporal. We're grateful for your assistance."

"We're here to help however we can," the corporal replied, his demeanor professional and focused.

As Spencer gazed out of his window, Beatrice noticed a spark of excitement in his eyes, capturing the moment as if he wanted to etch it into his memory forever. "I have not ridden any military helicopters in my life," he claimed, his curiosity evident. "Do you guys know that the UH-1Y is also called 'Yankee,' based on the NATO phonetic alphabet pronunciation of its variant letter?" Spencer shared an interesting fact.

The blonde turned her attention to the conversation happening inside the chopper. "That's interesting. I just thought we call it Yankee because that's what they named it, sir," Rogers responded.

"Yeah, actually, the UH-1Y just entered service last year, replacing the aging fleet UH-1N Twin Huey light utility helicopters that have been around since the Vietnam War,"

The pilot named Barnes chuckled, appreciating Spencer's wealth of information. "Damn, it's like I'm listening to a documentary, but it's human and right in front of me."

Beatrice observed the young profiler's reaction, his lips pursed and eyes looking away. She made a mental note to engage with him in a lighthearted way as the helicopter soared through the skies. "Wasn't the, uh, UH-1Y deployed just last January as part of the thirteenth Marine Expeditionary Unit, Corporal?"

"Yes, ma'am! For the aviation combat element." the Corporal responded with a smile and the conversation settled into a comfortable silence. "So, Behavioral Analysis, huh? You guys are profilers?"

Emily answered him. "Yeah."

"My son plans to enroll in the National Academy next week. He wants to become like you guys, a profiler. I wanted him to be more interested in joining the HRT, but I'll support him wherever he decides to go after graduation."

Bea offered a reassuring pat on his shoulder. "You're a good dad, Corporal Barnes."

The pilot's voice interrupted their conversation, announcing the approaching landing zone in six minutes.

The unit chief's voice carried a sense of urgency as he shared Dave's text with the team. "Dave just texted," he announced, displaying the message to Spencer and Emily. "He believes the six of us will complete the sequence, not Kaylee and the kids."

"That makes sense because he had already murdered seven women. Killing five more would make only twelve," chimed in Spencer, her voice steady, showing her sharp instincts in analyzing the situation.

Beatrice added to his point, her tone contemplative, "And even if he kills all of us together, that would only make eighteen. It would still break the pattern. If he kills all six of us, his sequence would be complete. Thirteen murders."

Emily's deduction was swift, her voice firm, "Kaylee and the kids were just decoys. The real targets were us then."

"He said we will find acid tanks around the back and that opening the entrance to where Kaylee and the kids are kept will trigger his trap for us. The acid will cover the whole area outside the room," Hotch read, his tone conveying the gravity of their predicament

Reid's response captured the ominous truth in just three words, his expression grim, "Literal acid rain."

"We're here, ma'am, sirs!"

"Now, we know what to do, let's move."

The pursuit led them to the landing area, where Derek and Todd awaited with SUVs. Less than ten minutes passed before they pinpointed the location where Kaylee Robinson and the kidnapped children were held captive. The path they followed corresponded to one of the marked points on the city map.

Exiting the SUV, the analyst secured her taser in her holster as she positioned herself at the front with the rest of the team.

"I'll go around the back and turn off the acid tanks," Beatrice declared, taking the initiative. Her mind was focused on the critical task ahead, moving swiftly towards the area behind the house.

Hotchner, ever the vigilant leader, spoke up, "I'm coming with you." His presence felt reassuring, but Beatrice was determined to handle this alone.

She stopped in her tracks, feeling the weight of his concern. "I can go alone. You go figure out how to enter the house without setting off the traps with the rest of the team."

His frown deepened. "Don't be so stubborn, Sterling. You're not going in there alone," he insisted, his tone firm and slightly irritated.

As they stuck together side by side, scanning their surroundings, Beatrice couldn't shake the feeling of an unsettling calmness in the air, as if danger lurked nearby, waiting to pounce. And her intuition didn't fail her. With a sudden jolt, she triggered a hidden tripwire, caught off guard as she was swiftly yanked away from the potential danger.

Her back met the warm soil, and as she opened her eyes, she found herself face to face with Aaron Hotchner, his strong arms wrapped securely around her waist, saving her from whatever peril awaited. Her heart pounded in her chest, and a tingling sensation spread through her body as his proximity intensified her awareness of him. The rush of the moment left her breathless, and her hands instinctively found their place around his neck, drawing him closer, the intensity of the situation heightening the emotions between them. For a brief moment, time seemed to stand still as they held each other, united in their shared adrenaline-fueled moment.

Bea couldn't stop the words that escaped her lips in the midst of the intense moment. "Sir, you're like really. . . sweaty right now," she blurted out, instantly feeling the heat rise to her cheeks.

His head turned to the side, seemingly scanning the surroundings for any lingering danger, but Beatrice couldn't shake off the awkwardness of her comment.

"But-but you don't smell bad, no! Actually, you smell so good, I just might. . ." She trailed off, her embarrassment evident as she tried to recover from her unintentionally flustering remark. ". . . might need to really keep my mouth shut," she mumbled, her voice becoming quieter.

"You should."

She winced.

As the acrid scent of burning leaves reached her nostrils, she spotted the metal pail that contained the hazardous acid not far away from the two of them. She immediately turned her attention to Hotchner, pushing him up, her concern for his safety taking over.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her forehead furrowed with worry. Her hands instinctively landed on his shoulders, feeling for any sign of injuries that might need attention.

Though his face remained stoic, his eyes revealed a genuine concern that touched her deeply. "Are you?" Hotchner replied, his gaze locked onto hers.

"Yeah, thanks to you."

His stern expression softened slightly, but he remained firm in his advice. "You should've been careful,"

"Right, I'm sorry,"

With a renewed sense of vigilance, Beatrice slowly removed her hands from Hotchner's shoulders, her mind now focused on the task at hand. She carefully approached the acid tanks, her senses on high alert, looking out for any more treacherous traps. Taking a deep breath, she turned off the valve, ensuring the safety of the team as they prepared to enter the house.

Through their communications, they alerted the rest of the team about the successful deactivation of the traps, and their coordinated efforts paid off. "We got them, Hotch. We got Kaylee and the children. All five of them," reported Derek, relief evident in his voice.

"Oh, thank god."

Their team leader wasted no time, immediately dialing Rossi to share the news of the successful hostage rescue. In return, Rossi's words carried a sense of victory as he revealed that Rothschild-Henry Grace had confessed to all seven murders, offering a bittersweet relief for everyone involved.

Back at headquarters, the weight of the mission's success mingled with the weariness that clung to them all. As the team dispersed to find some much-needed rest, Bea carried two folders in her arms, her steps determined as she made her way to her boss's office. A soft curl fell across her face, framing her features with a touch of casual elegance.

Knocking on his door, she watched as he briefly lifted his head from a sea of scattered papers. Despite the chaotic surroundings, his focus was sharp as ever. The blonde laid down the folders on his desk, her heart swelling with a sense of accomplishment as she stepped back, giving him space to review the documents.

"Here's the operational report,"

Hotchner's hand closed around the folder, his steady gaze quickly scanning the contents before he gave a decisive nod of approval. Beatrice watched, her foot tapping a restless rhythm against his office floor, as he meticulously reviewed each piece of paperwork.

"What are you doing?"

Her response was direct, her determination clear. "I'm staying here with you."

Just as her fingers reached for a pen on his desk, he resumed his work, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Go home, Sterling. We can go over the budget presentation tomorrow morning-"

"But, I already ordered some take-out," she interjected, pouting.

Hotch's gaze bore into her, his exhaustion evident in the bags under his eyes. Beatrice couldn't help but notice the toll his relentless dedication had taken on him. When had he last allowed himself a proper rest? The concern she felt for him simmered beneath the surface, urging her to persist to lighten his load. "You just don't give up, do you?" he remarked, his tone a mix of exasperation and curiosity.

A soft, determined smile curved Beatrice's red lips as she held his gaze, her arms crossing with a touch of defiance. "Not when I have already planned everything."

"And what is your plan?"

"To finish these paperworks with you, sir. Should there be any more than that?"

He didn't answer her question.

"May I borrow a pen?"

Hotchner complied, his fingers grazing against hers as he handed her the pen. Time seemed to pause for a fleeting moment, their eyes connecting. The heat of the moment lingered as he cleared his throat and released the pen.

"Where shall we start, Hotch?"

Unbeknownst to them, in the serene embrace of Altavista, Virginia, the haunting echoes of a woman's agonizing screams pierced the air, a sinister symphony that shattered the illusion of tranquility.

Within the confines of a gruesome tableau, their eyes were gouged out, leaving behind a horrifying tableau that defiled the very essence of innocence. On the wall, the cryptic message James 4:6 was etched with the macabre medium of her own blood.

"This is all your fault, Beatrice."

—————

tbh, i realized too late that rothschild was generally uncomfortable with women. i had already written half of this chapter, and i didn't want to discard it so i diverted the plot a little. after all this is a fanfic haha! i hope you liked this chapter and as always, ur comments/feedbacks are much appreciated! they motivate me a lot, istg!