CHAPTER TWELVE: THINGS I HAVE PATIENCE FOR TODAY: NOT THIS

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"YOU'RE NOW OFF the case."

Confusion and disbelief washed over the cyber analyst. She raised her hands in a defensive gesture, trying to grasp the unexpected turn of events. A chuckle escaped her lips, a defense mechanism to cope with the shock. Her perfectly arched eyebrow climbed to new heights on her forehead, almost disappearing into her hairline.

"Wait, what, sir—" Beatrice began, her voice a mix of incredulity and frustration. She couldn't fathom why she was being removed from the case. The air thickened with tension as she accused, "Is this because of my behavior earlier? Were you so affected that you're making this decision?" Disappointment laced her words as she clapped her hands, grappling with the unjust decision. "Fine, even though I did nothing truly wrong," she defended herself. "I was just irritated, and I apologize if you took it personally."

However, her attempt at reconciliation met a cold response. Hotchner's arms were folded, a stoic figure unmoved by her words. "The order didn't come from me."

Beatrice inhaled sharply, her parted lips poised to inquire, but Hotchner preemptively addressed the question forming in her mind.

"The order came from Sebastian."

His words struck her like a snapped rubber band against her cheek, causing an involuntary flinch.

The familiar sting of overprotection engulfed her as her uncle persisted in treating her like a fragile being. Beneath their concerns lurked the weariness of a grown woman, no longer the timid child who witnessed her father's sacrifice. Fists clenched, her nails dug into her palms with an intensity that hinted at her frustration. The burning desire to apprehend her father's murderer fueled her, a quest for justice that demanded trust. The question echoed in her mind: Why couldn't they trust her capability to protect herself? The fatigue of being perceived as incapable gnawed at her. I'm really tired of people treating me like I'm incapable of protecting myself.

"Though your accusations warrant disciplinary action, do you truly believe I want you removed from this case?" His determined strides closed the distance, collecting folders from the desk as he spoke. "You've been mandated to take a three-week break."

She had enough of this.

"Take a break? Bullshit," scoffed the woman, forcefully extracting her ID and taser. With a deliberate toss onto the desk, she locked eyes with her leader, her once-blue gaze now a searing, icy intensity. "Tell my uncle he can shove them up his ass. I'm resigning." The words were spat out, accompanied by a sharp spin that echoed her discontent, heels nearly screeching against the floor. Hand on the doorknob, she declared, "You can expect my resignation letter when we get back, Hotch. This will be my last case."

And with that, she left.

Beatrice sighed, her reflection staring back at her in the mirror. Three hours had passed since the argument, and a wave of realization crashed over her like the cold water running over her hands. Regret welled up as she grappled with the consequences of her impulsive decision. Anger may have fueled her actions, but she now questioned the wisdom of such a brash move. "Why did you do that, you moron?" she chastised herself, the harsh words lingering in the air like an echo of an ill-considered choice.

Cupping her hands, Beatrice bent down to wash her face with the cool water. As she closed her eyes, the sound of running water seemed to transport her to a distant memory, where faint voices whispered in the recesses of her mind.

Nine-year-old Beatrice awoke to the sight of a man's face looming over her. His arms tightly enveloped her, carrying her with an unsettling urgency. Fear gripped her small frame like an unyielding chain, paralyzing her in place. In an attempt to shield herself, she feigned sleep, but the facade crumbled when she was unceremoniously dropped into a rotating chair.

As her eyes snapped open, she was met with the distressing scene of her father bound and battered. Crimson liquid traced a path down the side of his head, and bruises marred his weakened face. The once strong figure now appeared defeated, vulnerable. "Adam! You bastard! Let them go!" her father's defiant shout rang out, a stark contrast to the harrowing tableau that unfolded before young Beatrice.

"Keep your voice down, Benedict. We haven't even started yet."

"They did nothing wrong to you. It's me you're after."

Adam's laughter, almost maniacal, pierced the air, causing Beatrice to wince. "Oh, yes. You're right about that. But," he casually placed his hand on the chair, spinning it lightly. "your children should 'pay' for your sins, as the Bible commands in Jeremiah 32:18."

"If you touch them—"

"You'll kill me? Don't you think you're too weak to do that now?" taunted Adam, his presence looming menacingly behind the little girl. "Olivia, Beatrice, if you keep quiet and do as I say, you won't get hurt, deal?"

Despite being unable to see the man before her, his voice alone compelled Beatrice to obey. A deep-rooted fear gripped her, an unexplainable terror reminiscent of the unsettling stories circulating among the children in her archery class— the ghost under the bed. His terrifying smile lingered in her imagination.

The intruder, with a smile that sent shivers down her spine, left her hands and feet untied, unlike her father's restrained state. A fleeting thought of escape flickered in her mind as they were only in the basement, but the uncertainty of how far she could make it held her back. The fear of the unknown outweighed the potential escape route. No, this man might hurt me, she surmised, deciding to resist the urge to flee and remain obedient for the sake of her safety.

"Okay, Ben, tonight's game is easy. Choose one of your children who you'll save and I'll shoot the other dead."

"No, no-"

"No? You don't agree? Alright, then. I'll make it easier for you. I'll spin these chairs around twice and whoever faces you will die. Sounds good? Yeah, that sounds good. I like it. Okay, I'll spin this now."

"Please don't kill them! Please! Stop!"

As the intruder prepared to rotate the chair, Beatrice clenched her eyes shut, a desperate prayer escaping her lips, hoping for a miracle to save them. Suddenly, the intruder's agonized yell pierced the air, and the metallic scent of blood filled her nostrils.

"Bea! Come here! Help Dad!"

The blonde girl jumped down from her seat, her lips trembling as she faced the distressing scene before her. Salty tears streamed down her cheeks, their taste lingering as they dropped onto the head of her brown teddy bear, Flora. The sight unfolded in front of her: a pocket knife embedded into the intruder's abdomen, red liquid seeping out rapidly, staining his once-white shirt with a large blot. Confusion engulfed her young mind, unable to comprehend the unfolding tragedy, but a fervent desire welled up within her— she just wanted this all to stop.

"Bea!"

Startled, Beatrice jolted, her heart racing. Without hesitation, she sprinted towards her older sister to assist in freeing their father. Focusing on his feet, she skillfully untied the knots, drawing on the lessons learned from her time in the Girl Scouts. As soon as he was liberated, her father urgently grabbed their hands, guiding them toward the flight of stairs. However, a sudden obstacle caused them to trip. Beatrice's face collided with the ground, a sharp pain radiating through her, but her attention swiftly shifted to the source of the hindrance. Despite the pain, she quickly assessed the situation. It was Adam, attempting to regain his strength and thwart their escape. With a swift kick to the stomach, her father retaliated, sending Adam writhing in pain, granting them a precious opportunity to flee.

"Are you two okay?"

"My foot hurts, Dad—I can't move it! Ah!" cried Olivia, beads of sweat forming on her forehead. Beatrice's eyes darted to her sister's ankle, twisted in an unnatural direction. Their father, despite his own injuries, wore the look of a desperate man. He himself was hurt, but it didn't matter. Willing himself, he scooped Olivia into his arms, and they made their way to the living room. The absence of light made the ordeal even more challenging, with only faint illumination seeping through the glass windows.

Gently laying Olivia near the door, their father addressed her. His eyes carried an affection that spoke volumes of his love for them. "Bea, baby," he began, his voice tender. "I need you to take your sister out to the front yard and wait for your Uncle Seb. Can you do that for me?"

The little blonde girl clutched her father's hands desperately, her eyes pleading. "No! I'm not leaving you here, Daddy! Come with us!"

"Bea's right, Dad. Don't stay here. He'll kill you," urged Olivia, wincing as she pressed her back flat against the wall.

A bittersweet smile graced their father's face as he tenderly placed both hands on each of their cheeks. It felt like an intimate farewell, as if this might be their last shared moment. "Daddy will be right behind you, girls. I promise."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

That was the last promise they made together.

As the silhouette emerged from the basement, Beatrice's attention snapped to the figure, and a loud, shrill scream escaped her lips. "Daddy!"

Her father reacted with astonishing speed, pivoting to confront the knife aimed at his chest. Splatters of blood painted her face like macabre strokes, and horror gripped Beatrice as she witnessed the relentless assault on her father, Benedict Sterling. The sound, a sickening squelch as the blade met flesh, etched itself into her memory, a haunting refrain that would persist even as she grew older.

A guttural growl escaped her father's lips as he knelt to the ground, blood spilling from his lips like a crimson cascade. The once-pristine wooden floor transformed into a canvas of horror, stained with puddles of blood. His hand reached out to them, fingers trembling, as he took slow, labored breaths, an agonizing tableau etching itself into Beatrice's consciousness.

"Benedict! Oh, Benedict! Why are you making it so hard for me to kill you?! All I want to do is carry out God's work!"

The door burst open, and Beatrice instinctively covered her ears, seeking refuge in Olivia's protective embrace. Her older sister bent down, shielding them both as a cacophony of voices filled the room. "Drop the weapon, Adam! It's over!"

"Hands in the air! Drop it now!"

The girl's gaze lingered on her father's cold corpse, now held by their uncle, his eyes fixed on them as if he wished them to be the last image he saw before parting. The yells of her uncle blurred in the background as she couldn't tear her eyes away from the sight of Adam being dragged out, grinning like a madman. Soft hands gently landed on her shoulders, guiding them away from the haunting scene and the final moments of her father's life.

The confusion gnawed at Beatrice's young heart. Her father, Benedict Sterling, was a paragon of kindness and sweetness. He came home early to cook dinner, made the best pancakes, and unfailingly fetched them from school. His commitment to justice and duty resonated in his words, explaining how his job was the best in the world, devoted to arresting criminals for the sake of justice and public safety.

Daddy is making the world a better place for you two and everyone. I'm protecting you guys. Those reassurances clashed with the harsh truth of his untimely departure.

If he was indeed making the world a better place, why was he killed?

The unanswered question lingered, a painful knot in her heart as she tried to reconcile the goodness of her father with the cruel fate he faced.

A comforting blanket draped over Beatrice's shoulders, and she clung to it tightly, her small hands also clutching a cherished toy. Throughout the tumultuous altercation, she hadn't once let go of this precious possession— a gift from her late mother on her birthday, before she succumbed to cancer. Despite the profound loss, Benedict, their father, had made a steadfast commitment to be present in their lives, weaving a thread of connection that transcended his relentless schedule.

As the heavens opened up, rain cascaded down upon the young girl, mirroring the storm within her heart. Each raindrop seemed to carry the weight of her grief, merging with the tears streaming down her cheeks. As the rain and tears mingled, the boundary between the sky's lament and her own grief blurred. The downpour became an ally, a cathartic release that, for a fleeting moment, washed away the tangible traces of her tears and her father's blood.

The rain, like a tender companion, enveloped her, its gentle touch offering solace. The emotional downpour mirrored the cleansing of her soul, as if the rain sought to bear witness to her sorrow and offer solace in its gentle embrace.

As she turned off the faucet, Beatrice met her own gaze in the mirror. There, reflected in her eyes, was a sense of pride— pride in overcoming the harrowing chapter of her lif Each trial had chiseled her resilience, and she marveled at the woman she had become— a survivor, with her heart and spirit unbroken.

At that moment, she made a decision— she would pursue justice, even if it meant going after Adam without the traditional support of the police and the FBI. She had trained for this moment, honing her skills to face the shadows that lingered in the corners of her past. Beatrice stood poised on the precipice of a path that would demand all her strength, a path she was determined to tread to its bitter end.

She just have to drop the facade.

TWO DELICATE PINK paper cranes perched serenely on Beatrice's table. As her fingers pressed the folds, gently coaxing the wings apart where they were carefully creased, she found stability in the rhythmic motions that often accompanied moments of contemplation or silent wishes. She had always admired the aesthetic appeal of these creations, her small sources of comfort in the midst of turmoil. The memory of a jar filled with these delicate birds in her office with Garcia brought a fleeting smile to her face.

Completing the intricate folds of the paper crane, her silent wish echoed in the recesses of her mind. She yearned for the resolution of the case, the closure that would allow her to turn her focus towards hunting down Adam, her father's murderer.

As she returned her attention to the images displayed on her screen, frustration bubbled within her. The Reaper case had proven elusive, leaving no fingerprints or DNA in its wake. Even the perpetrator's voice remained distorted through a voice changer, shrouding the investigation in an unsettling cloak of mystery. Beatrice sighed, a gust of wind tousling the strands of hair framing her face, as the weight of the case continued to press upon them all.

"Are those paper cranes?" Reid's inquisitive voice drew the analyst's attention, her eyes lifting to meet him as he stood with hands in his pockets, a genuine smile gracing his lips.

"Yeah, making these helps me think."

His eyes glinted with a reminiscent light as he confessed, "I once tried to make these when I was young, but I always ended up with a crumpled piece of paper. Nowhere close to what I wanted to achieve." He hummed thoughtfully, reaching for one of the paper cranes, studying it with careful fascination. "Did you know, along with dragons and tortoises, cranes have traditionally been considered a holy animal in Japan? Legend has it that the Japanese crane lives for a thousand years and brings good luck.

As a matter of fact, there's a tradition, Senbazuru— anyone who can fold and string together one thousand origami cranes will have eternal good luck, and all of their wishes will be granted by the gods. Today, they are known as a symbol of peace."

"It's also a symbol of hope and healing."

The blonde delicately picked up one of the paper cranes, her gaze fixed upon it. Memories stirred within her— lessons learned during therapy as a child, a time where she found solace in the repetitive act of folding, crafting the paper cranes that held the weight of her wishes. "The legend isn't true though."

My wish didn't come true. My father didn't come back.

"Of course, it is. I mean, it's a legend. They are created for. . ."

The woman grinned, unable to resist interrupting his explanation, and affectionately pinched his cheek. "You're so adorable when you ramble, Dr. Reid."

"Ow."

A subtle movement across the room drew Beatrice's attention, the sight of a blonde figure catching her eye. Jareau bore the telltale signs of frustration, her lips downturned in distress. "Are you okay, JJ? You look stressed."

"The Reaper just murdered two more forty minutes ago."

"What?"

"Hotch and Rossi are already on the scene. The media's catching scent of this already, and it'll be really difficult to hold off the story once they start," explained JJ, rubbing her eyebrow. "What you guys working on?"

The analyst's fingers danced across the keyboard, executing a search across the specified area with precision. "Actually, I'm going over the evidence and photos from crime scenes again while my system sifts through Boston's entire drug database. Considering the injury he sustained, I'm convinced he has a doctor's prescription for it. I'm determined to find that connection; there's got to be one or two drugstores he frequents."

"Hotch thinks you're just wasting time, and your idea is idiotic,"

Beatrice blinked, her gaze shifting to Reid. Lowering her head, she allowed her eyeglasses to slide down, emphasizing her disbelief. "I beg his fucking pardon?"

Reid grimaced briefly before offering an unexpected reassurance. ". . . but I believe in your persistence, and I think there will be progress. I'd estimate about a fifty-five percent chance of success."

Should I strangle Aaron Hotchner when he gets back? Suppressing her immediate urge to retort, she forced out, "I don't know how you calculated my chances so. . . whatever. I'll just do my best to decipher all these patterns." A heavy sigh escaped her lips. "Take a look here. The Reaper. . . you know, he's like this relentless hunter without a specific prey, just prowling around. Picture a snake hunting a deer."

Reid tilted his head, following her gesture towards the screen. "More like a wolf going after a deer. In the book Wisdom of Wolves, Twyman L. Towery described how wolves don't hurl themselves at their prey at the first opportunity, relying on sheer force. Instead, they exhibit an extraordinary level of patience, observing, following, and planning a successful attack on a herd of prey."

JJ asked, "Which means?"

"For him, it's not about an easy kill; it's more about the slow, deliberate process. The way he killed his female victims with the knife, and stalked Shaunessy, taking delight in watching his life fall apart as the guilt consumed him."

"He derives satisfaction from the power he gets over his victims."

Reid affirmed, "Exactly."

"Okay, I finally get what you guys are going on about now, but don't wolves hunt around in packs?"

The doctor turned to JJ, offering insight, "Every year, individual wolves across America leave the natal pack they were born into and go solo, becoming lone wolves in the wild."

Beatrice traced her fingernail across the screen, singling out another photo. "This picture, it's as you said. He sees himself as fate personified, claiming control over life and death. He's asserting authority over destinies, deciding if today is your day to live or not." A shrug accompanied her words, and she raised her hands, shaking her head. "Ugh, this is so not my usual thing— I'm more into analyzing cyber data patterns— but I'm genuinely doing my best to wrap my head around this whole power play, you know?"

"He fits the profile of what we call an Omnivore."

A deep, resonant voice shook the woman, causing her to startle and jump out of her chair. Face to face with her team leader, who was slowly transitioning back into an enemy— no surprise, given their heated exchange from yesterday and earlier. Bracing herself for potential belittlement, she reminded herself to keep her head low, as her uncle advised, and maintain the persona she'd portrayed in recent weeks.

Yet, it was becoming exhausting.

The frustration of the case weighed heavily since the Reaper needed to be apprehended as soon as possible, especially since it marked her final assignment. So, if he dared to undermine her again, perhaps strangling him wasn't such an outlandish thought. Crossing her arms, the strain of the case and the internal conflict with her team leader etched across her face when she asked, "When did you get here?"

"Briefing starts in five minutes," he dismissed her question, a condescending once-over accompanying his gaze as he walked away. The blonde attempted to assert her focus on the ongoing analysis, stating, "Sir, I'll be staying here because I'm running an analysis-"

"Attend the briefing, Sterling. That's an order," he interrupted, his authoritative tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Beatrice let out a frustrated grunt, her foot meeting the floor with an assertive stomp as she trailed behind him, turning into the corridor. "God, give me patience," she muttered under her breath.

"I think you mean 'give me strength'," Reid corrected, his attempt at humor tinged with a touch of awkwardness.

"Reid, if God gave me strength," she scoffed, a sharp edge to her tone. "Hotch would be dead already."

". . . Coffee?" the doctor almost squeaked, attempting to diffuse the tension with a gesture of peace.

"Please, with lots of sugar. Thank you."

By this time, another voice barged into the scene. "Hey, did someone piss you off?" Beatrice clamped her lips shut, refusing to dignify the question with a response.

He pivoted to inquire further, "Who pissed her off? JJ, is she hungry? Does Bee need a Snickers bar?"

"Derek!" she snapped, whipping around, her hair striking Derek's chest with an audible thud. A glare that could cut through steel accompanied her words. "Shut. up."

With a swift spin, she retraced her steps, heading towards the briefing area. Just before entering, Derek's voice echoed behind her, "Something is definitely wrong."

THE DEVIL WORKS hard, but the Boston Reaper works harder.

Chaos enveloped the entire police station as word spread of seven lives snuffed out in a gruesome killing spree on a bus.

It was in that moment of disarray that Beatrice realized she had been awake for over twenty-four hours without respite. Fatigue clawed at her, but her eyes remained fixed on the screen, the culmination of her system's exhaustive search imminent. The flickering glow of the monitor was her only companion, complemented by the station's three-in-one coffee mix— her lifeline during these hours. The bitter liquid surged through her veins, a desperate attempt to stave off exhaustion. Three cups down, and she could already predict the need for one more as the weight of the unfolding events pressed upon her shoulders.

Rossi, Reid, and Hotch entered the station, the latter wearing a facade of stoicism that thinly veiled the profound distress beneath. She recognized the haunted look, a haunting echo of her own experiences in Iraq— helplessness, emptiness, emotions etched in the lines of his face. Rubbing her eyes and adjusting her eyeglasses, she sought refuge in the familiar routine of brewing another cup of coffee, a meager attempt to anchor herself amid the unfolding chaos.

As she immersed herself in the process, Rossi joined her, relaying the grim details of the Reaper's cruel deal with Hotchner. The refusal had led to the tragic deaths of seven people on the bus. In the midst of absorbing the harrowing details, she absentmindedly played with the ends of her sweater, grappling with the weight of the tragedy.

Yet, as the narrative unfolded, the analyst reached a decision. She may be upset with him, but she was not heartless.

Pushing the office door ajar, Beatrice's soft blue eyes fell upon her team leader, his back turned towards her. One hand nestled inside his pockets, he stared out through the window blinds, detached from the chaos that gripped the station. The distance in his gaze hinted at a mind wandering far beyond the immediate surroundings.

The expectation that the Reaper would strike again lingered, but this time it felt different. In that moment, it wasn't just another murder; it was personal for the unit chief. She sensed the burden he carried, the haunting thought that perhaps he could've prevented the tragedy by agreeing to the deal. He likely grappled with self-blame, questioning whether he made the wrong choice.

But in her eyes, he hadn't.

Their duty was to apprehend criminals, to demonstrate that the law and its enforcers stood unwavering against them. the Reaper aimed to exploit Hotch's integrity, using guilt as a weapon to assert power over him. While others might lay blame at his feet, she stood ready to defend him, staunch in her belief that he had unwaveringly upheld the principles that defined their pursuit of justice.

With a swallow to ease the lump in her throat, Beatrice approached him, standing silently by his side as they both observed the officers outside their office. A minute passed, and she hung her head low, the weight of unspoken words pressing on her.

There were so many things she wished to convey— reassurances like "It wasn't your fault" and "You were just doing your job." But the words remained trapped within, refusing to escape her lips. Instead, her hand instinctively reached out, intertwining with his in a silent gesture of comfort. In that touch, she hoped to convey what her words couldn't articulate:

I'm here for you.

As her pink-painted lips parted, poised to speak, she felt a warm squeeze on her hand. A catch in her breath accompanied the sensation, realizing it was as if he clung to her for dear life, making her his lifeline. Though his gaze remained fixed ahead, the firm grip on her hand felt like an unspoken response to the sentiments she wanted to convey.

Thank you.

It was as if they possessed an unspoken understanding, communicating their emotions without uttering a single word. Holding his hand, the woman turned to face him, wrapping her arms around him with a deliberate slowness. A moment of stillness followed, as if he were taken aback by her unexpected gesture. As she began patting his back, he reciprocated, his arms enveloping her in a tight embrace.

Height difference became palpable as he buried his head in the crook of her neck. Hot tears soaked the fabric of her clothes and she sensed the dam of emotions within him finally breaking. A flood of heaviness and burden seemed to release, unloading in that moment.

Time seemed to pause as they stood locked in this embrace, a refuge from the storm swirling around them and a solace found in the presence of someone who truly understood.

And then, they stayed like that for a while.

"HE NEVER USED code before, why now?" Hotchner's gaze remained fixed on the photo in his hands, captured from the crime scene where blood-smeared numbers were scrawled on the side windows.

Beside him, the cyber analyst cracked her knuckles in preparation, her mouse tracing the contours of another CCTV footage. The weariness of the investigation seeped through her, evident in a yawn that momentarily overcame her. Shaking her head, she dismissed the exhaustion, determined to uncover any clues. Reid, ever analytical, interjected, "They're not part of a pattern or equation. Mathematically, they're insignificant."

"Maybe so, but I know I've seen them before."

"Okay, so the Reaper deviated from his usual pattern of attacking people in their cars," Beatrice pointed out, her fingers absently scratching her ear as she pondered the shift in the serial killer's behavior. "Didn't Foyet say he only takes the bus?"

Hotchner, his focus unwavering, mumbled in response, "It was the number seven," his finger tracing a path on the map spread across their board. "And it stops right in front of Foyet's apartment."

"He knows where Foyet lives."

"And he wants us to know it."

A perplexed expression contorted the woman's face with an unmistakable unease. A lingering disquiet gnawed at her as she grappled with the details of this case. The Reaper's fixation on Foyet struck her as excessive, considering the slow demise already afflicting the dying man. Killing him directly appeared unnecessary; the stress and constant fear he induced should have been sufficient. She sighed, sensing the impending danger if her and Reid's analogy of the Reaper being like a wolf held true. Foyet, like prey, must now be on the brink of desperation, attempting to evade the impending strike.

A ping from her monitor snapped her swirling thoughts, and her eyes widened. She raised her hand to signal the attention of her colleagues, "Uh, hey, didn't the witness mention the shooter wearing a black jacket and a mask on that bus?"

With their focus now on her, she continued, "Surveillance caught him briefly entering an alleyway on Yarborough Road, forty minutes after the attack."

Hotch's questioning gaze bore into her. "Where did you get this?"

A hint of unease lingered as she licked her lips before admitting, "I may or may not have. . . illegally obtained it."

Feeling the weight of their scrutiny, the cyber analyst instinctively raised both hands in a defensive gesture. "Okay, okay. I was too exhausted to navigate through the bureaucracy of surveillance permissions. So, I hacked in and retrieved what we needed. But, don't worry, I'll inform them about it. I promise."

"I gotta say it's pretty impressive."

"Thanks, Rossi. I once hacked into the Pentagon serv—" She abruptly halted, catching herself mid-sentence. "I mean, if it's connected to the internet, it's hackable."

"What happened to your prescription hunt?"

She shrugged, a nonchalant air about her. "I ditched it for a moment."

The doctor's voice, almost a whisper, murmured, "Fourteen thirty-nine. . ." before he confidently asserted, "The apartment you interviewed him in today was fourteen thirty-nine Yarborough."

Rossi joined him, extracting his pocket notebook and placing it beside the photo displaying the numbers from the crime scene. "The other addresses he gave us. Two-oh-one South Brookline. Fourteen eighty-eight Edenhurst. The numbers on the bus are Foyet's addresses."

The blonde's hand instinctively covered her mouth. "And he was spotted in Yarborough Road. He's hunting Foyet."

"We'll split up and cover each address."

"Yes, sir."

Swiftly reaching her SUV, Beatrice wasted no time in slipping into her bulletproof vest. Assigned to accompany Derek and O'Mara, they were to cover the Edenhurst home address. As she secured her hair into a ponytail, she slid a spare taser into her holster, having surrendered her primary one to Hotch. With ease, she removed her glasses, opting for contact lenses, and attached her radio headset to her wrist and ear.

Derek's voice cut through behind her. "I think this is the perfect time where you bring a gun, Bea."

The analyst's apprehension lingered in the air, her gaze flickering towards her duffel bag where her gun lay. Derek's words resonated— this was a dangerous moment, as they might encounter the Reaper. A mere taser wouldn't cut it against a serial killer. It would be stupid. Even with a knife snugly attached to her left ankle, she knew it wouldn't be enough to take an offensive stance.

With a palpable hesitation, she delved into her bag, her fingers wrapping around the cold steel of her double-action revolver and a couple of speed loaders. The metallic click resonated through the air as she expertly released the cylinder, loading the chambers with bullets. While FBI agents typically favored the precision of glocks as it was the standard-issue handgun, she had deliberately requested to include a revolver as her additional equipment. In her hands, the revolver represented a calculated decision— she could opt for a blank bullet, an added layer of control in unpredictable situations.

Snapping the cylinder close, she shut the car door, securing the weapon into her holster. "Let's roll."

THE HOUSE WAS quiet.

Gripping her gun, Beatrice trailed closely behind the police officer as they approached the front steps of one of Foyet's houses.

"I'll take the back," signaled O'Mara, swiftly moving in that direction. Positioned on the right side of the door, the woman exchanged a nod with Morgan, who burst inside with a force that nearly kicked the door down. She cautiously ascended to the second floor, parting ways with Derek to cover more ground.

On high alert, she moved with a predator's grace, her weapon raised, ready to unleash its charge at the first sign of movement. Room by room, she scanned for any threat, her senses heightened. Nothing of interest in the other rooms prompted her to advance to the master bedroom. As she surveyed the room, the intensity of the moment remained palpable. Yet, the bedroom yielded no immediate threats. The hunt continued.

A sudden crash of shattered glass pierced the silence, and with a swift, controlled spin on her heel, reflexes honed through experience guided her movements. With a practiced fluidity, she lifted her left foot, swiftly retrieving her ring knife. Weapon raised, she positioned her left arm with the knife as a stable platform, her right arm supporting the gun on top of it.

As the blonde descended the stairs, her senses heightened, ready to confront the commotion. From the front window, Beatrice observed a figure cloaked in a black hoodie standing outside. Derek's absence fueled her concern and she feared the worst. Her eyes widened as she confirmed him to be the target of the intruder's aggression.

"Wake up, derek. It's time to die."

"Drop your weapon!" Beatrice's command echoed through the living room, her eyes never leaving the intruder who remained unmoved, back still turned. Lips pursed tight, she repeated, "I said drop the weapon!"

Without a hint of hesitation, she raised her revolver toward the ceiling and fired a blank shot. The thunderous sound reverberated through the room. In the aftermath, she leveled her gun back at the intruder. Expressionless, her icy gaze bore into the assailant, a reflection of a woman transformed— her demeanor cold, her eyes devoid of warmth, signaling a shift into a different persona.

"That was a warning shot," her voice cut through the silence like a blade and the next words dripped with deadly certainty, "The next one goes through you."

With a slow turn, the assailant faced her, a mask concealing his identity. Her eyes narrowed, undeterred by the faceless threat. "You're tough. That's fun."

This was the Reaper, no doubt.

In the blink of an eye, gunfire erupted as Beatrice and the masked man simultaneously exchanged shots. Two gunshots reverberated through the room— one bullet narrowly missed Beatrice's arm, embedding itself into the wall behind her. The other found its target in the assailant's right shoulder, a precise strike executed with a cold, calculated precision— as if she were engaged in nothing more than a routine drill. His balance shattered, the masked man staggered under the impact, but her composure remained unbroken and unflinching.

Beatrice's voice remained cold, as if she expected nothing less than to see her bullet penetrate his flesh.

"I warned you, asshole."

——————

phew! CONGRATS TO ME! BC THIS IS LIKE THE FASTEST CHAPTER I HAVE WRITTEN! this was so fun to write as finally, finally, the beatrice sterling is coming out of the shell. if you felt like she's quite inconsistent, it's because she really is. ;) so excited for what's to come! i hope you liked this chapter bc i liked it!

bea to the reaper/foyet: