CHAPTER FOURTEEN: INSANE MAN GETS A PERSPECTIVE BY REMINDING HIMSELF THAT HE IS GOD

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BEATRICE STOOD IN the dimly lit room, the weight of the documents in her hands feeling heavier with each passing second. The pages were filled with accusations, details she already knew, but seeing them laid out in black and white made it real. Tangible. She set the papers down carefully, as though handling something toxic. Removing her glasses, she rubbed her eyes, trying to push away the exhaustion that clung to her like a second skin. She didn't need them anymore. She didn't have to pretend anymore.

Her voice came out calm, too calm, considering the storm brewing inside her. "Where did you get this?" 

Penelope hesitated, her eyes flitting between her and Morgan. She opened her mouth, then faltered, finally speaking, “It was emailed to me. I’m sorry, Beatrice. I wanted to bring it to you first, but. . . Morgan saw it, and—”

Beatrice felt a surge of frustration, hot and sharp. Of course, Morgan would get involved before she had a chance to fully process. “Did you trace the IP address?” she asked, her tone still even, despite the growing knot in her chest.

Penelope nodded, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her blouse. “Yes, but. . . it’s complicated. It was sent from a location that’s not exactly. . .. safe. I could try to backtrace it, but I’d need to go off the grid. Completely.” Her voice trembled, then firmed as she continued, “It’s the dark web, Bea. Whoever sent this has serious resources—like, government-level firewalls. If I can dig into the financial side, maybe I can—”

Morgan cut her off, his voice a low growl of frustration. “No, Garcia. Not yet. I want to know something first.”

She felt his eyes on her, the intensity of his gaze drilling into her. She knew what was coming.

Her colleague folded his arms across his chest, his muscles tensing. “Beatrice,” he began, his voice rough, barely holding back the edge of betrayal. “Why didn’t you tell us? About him? About all of this?”

Before Beatrice could find the words, the door creaked open, and a familiar figure strode into the room. Sebastian Sterling, her uncle, was as imposing as ever, dressed in a sharp, tailored suit, his presence commanding attention. The room shifted as he walked in, his steps measured, the air growing tenser with each stride. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, his gaze locking onto Morgan with a cold, unyielding intensity.

“If you’re looking for someone to blame, Agent,” Sebastian’s voice was calm but edged with steel, “then blame me. I ordered her not to tell you.”

“I—”

“Son, don’t,” Sebastian cut him off with a dismissive wave, his eyes never leaving Morgan. There was no room for formality here. He wasn’t speaking as an official; he was speaking as a man protecting his own niece. “I’m here to clear this up before you jump to any more conclusions. Let me explain Beatrice’s role in Operation Blackbird.”

With a quick flick of his wrist, he tossed a manila folder onto the table. It landed with a heavy thud, the weight of its contents seeming to pull the entire room into its orbit. Every eye was on that folder—on the secrets it held. Beatrice’s pulse quickened, her heart beating in her ears. She could feel the eyes on her, but she kept her gaze steady, though her insides twisted with every word.

“Operation Blackbird? You knew this, Rossi?”

Sebastian ignored the comment, his gaze flickering to Beatrice for a moment before he turned back to the team. “All of this,” he gestured to the documents inside the folder, “is true. Beatrice didn’t just stumble into this case by accident. She was involved long before any of you even knew who Adam was. Before she joined the FBI, she worked as a DIA field operative. Operation Blackbird was her last covert assignment.

The woman swallowed hard. The room felt smaller now, the walls closing in as the truth unraveled. She had buried this part of her life deep, hoping it would never come back to haunt her. But here it was, laid bare for everyone to see.

Her uncle continued, his voice as sharp as the glint of his glasses. “The purpose of Blackbird was to provide intelligence support to special forces in hostile environments. If necessary, operatives were to eliminate threats. Vollmer was one of those threats.”

“So... she was an assassin?” Garcia’s voice wavered, her eyes wide as she struggled to reconcile the Beatrice she knew with the cold facts being presented.

Sebastian’s expression hardened. “If that’s how you want to frame it, then sure. But understand this—she did what needed to be done. Don’t make the mistake of seeing it in black and white.” He turned to Penelope, nodding toward the folder. “Pull up the profile I gave you.”

Penelope’s fingers flew across the keys, and within seconds, an image flashed on the screen—a middle-aged man with piercing blue eyes and a sharp beard, his face severe. “Klaus Vollmer,” she read aloud, her voice uneasy. “Wanted by Interpol. . . death confirmed in 1995.”

Emily leaned forward, her eyes narrowing as she took in the image. “I remember him. Interpol issued a red notice on him before he was found dead in Berlin. It was never officially solved.”

Sebastian’s gaze never wavered. “Because it was never meant to be solved. Vollmer was planning to work with the hacking group Lazarus to orchestrate a series of cyber-attacks across North America. He intended to flood major cities by hacking water systems, manipulating the stock market, and making billions in profit.” He paused, letting the gravity of it sink in. “Beatrice is the one who stopped him.”

All eyes turned toward Beatrice.

She could feel the weight of their stares, the silent questions hanging in the air like smoke. But all she could focus on was the gnawing dread deep inside her chest. The past she had buried was now wide open, exposed. The Beatrice they knew was no longer the only Beatrice in the room. The woman who had worn the mask of a team member and a friend was also the same woman who had been trained to eliminate threats. A woman who had been a part of something darker.

Morgan’s voice broke the silence, low and uncertain. “You. . . killed him?”

Beatrice’s throat tightened, but she forced herself to speak. "He was willing to do anything for money," Beatrice said, her voice steady though her mind reeled from the memories. She stood slightly in front of her uncle, her gaze fixed on the file in her hands, the television screen behind her flickering with the haunting image of Klaus Vollmer. “When I uncovered his plan to poison half of Europe with Polonium-210 after flooding North America, I knew he couldn’t be allowed to live.”

“Polonium-210?” the dark-skinned man asked, the disbelief evident in his voice.

"It’s a highly radioactive metal found in uranium ore,” Sebastian answered, his tone detached, factual. He had delivered explanations like this before—cold, methodical. “It’s tasteless, odorless, and nearly impossible to detect once ingested.”

Spencer’s voice cut through, sharp and filled with knowing, as if plucking the answer from some encyclopedic vault in his mind. “It’s incredibly lethal. Just a few milligrams can kill. It’s one of the deadliest substances on Earth—more toxic than cyanide. And without specialized tools, there’s almost no way to identify it as the cause.”

Beatrice barely heard them. The weight of it all pressed against her, suffocating. Each fact was a memory, every detail a moment she had lived through, suffered through. It wasn’t the science that haunted her—it was the choices. Knowing what she had done.

JJ spoke next, her voice low as she began listing the names of those involved in Operation Blackbird. “Ilya Makarov, Cara Berger, Marc LeBlanc, Nathaniel Callas, Maro Kaneko, Klaus Vollmer, Howard Dallas, Oliver Stark. . .” Each name was like a hammer, nailing her past to the floor in front of her team. She felt their eyes on her, felt their judgment hanging in the air, tightening around her throat. “You killed all of them?”

The analyst’s voice came out cold, drained of the emotion that was ripping her apart inside. “Three out of the six, yes. I was directly responsible for them. I joined the operation later, but I played my part.” This was the truth. This was who she had been.

The silence that followed felt twisted, suffocating her more than any room filled with enemies ever had. And then Spencer broke it. His voice was soft but laced with something raw. “Are you really the person we know? Or was everything you’ve shown us just a façade?”

Beatrice’s heart clenched as she met his gaze. Spencer—brilliant, kind Spencer. He had been the one she thought might understand. But now his question tore through her like a bullet, cutting her deeper than anything else. 

Her eyes shifted toward Hotch, hoping—desperately hoping—for something from him. But his face remained impassive, his dark eyes unreadable. She felt the weight of his judgment like a shadow hanging over her, cold and silent. Did he still see her the same way? Could he? Two days ago, she had convinced herself that his opinion didn’t matter, that she could live with her choices. But now, standing here, she wasn’t sure. She couldn’t stand the uncertainty, the gnawing doubt that ate at her, but she couldn’t bear to ask him either. She couldn’t bear to see what might be written in his silence.

“Everything I’ve shown you, Spencer, has been real,” Bea said, her voice steady but brittle, like glass waiting to shatter. “I didn’t hide who I was. I’ve always been that person—the one standing in front of you now. But that other life. . . I did what was necessary. I did what I was ordered to do. And it’s part of me, whether I want it to be or not. I hid it from you all because I didn’t want this to be who I was anymore. I just. . . didn’t want any of you to look at me like you’re looking at me right now.”

Then came JJ’s voice, “Did you ever. . ." She trailed off, leaving the question hanging in the air.

The cyber analyst leaned forward, resting her hands on the cold surface of the table, gathering the strength to answer. What was left to hide? Adam had dragged her past into the light, exposing her most shameful secrets. 

“Regret it?” Her voice came out strained, as if the admission was being torn from her. She glanced at JJ, then quickly dropped her gaze, unable to meet their eyes. “Of course, I regret it. Every single day.” 

Her voice faltered for a moment, but she pushed through. She had to. “The thing about killing. . . it doesn’t just go away. You carry it with you, like a scar you can’t see but can always feel.” She swallowed hard, feeling the familiar guilt twist like a knife in her gut. “It never leaves you. It haunts you. Stains you. And no matter how much time passes, you can’t wash the blood off your hands.”

Her gaze flickered to Hotchner, seeking something—understanding, forgiveness, anything. But his expression remained unreadable, stoic as always. Did he hate her now? Did they all?

She forced herself to continue. “But if that’s the price I had to pay to keep thousands of people safe, then… it’s one I’ll live with. Whether I like it or not.”

A heavy, oppressive silence filled the room. She could feel the judgment in the air, the way her team processed her confession. Derek shifted in his seat, breaking the tension. “Earlier, you said he has the resources. Who’s ‘he’?”

"The man who sent you that email," Beatrice said, her voice low but unwavering. "Adam Reagan. My father’s murderer. The Sin Killer."

Morgan blinked, the disbelief clear in his voice. “Isn’t he in jail? He’s been locked up for the last twenty—”

“He escaped,” their leader cut in, his tone as sharp as the tension thickening the air. “Not long ago.”

Their leader finally stepped forward, placing a Manila folder on the table with deliberate care. "Virginia State Police contacted us two days ago," he said, his voice deep and measured. He passed the file to Rossi, who began sifting through its contents. "They’ve seen a spike in deaths, all bearing the signature of a particular serial killer. They suspected a copycat at first, but. . ."

The eldest of the profilers interrupted, sliding a photograph across the table. "This isn’t a copycat. This is Adam." The image of a woman, her eyes gouged out, stared back at them. Bloodied words were scrawled on the wall behind her: James 4:6. "This is the Sin Killer."

Emily’s eyes narrowed. "Are you sure?"

"Cross on the arm," Rossi replied gravely. "Same mark he’s always used. Adam wants us to know he’s back."

Hotch nodded, his eyes settling on Beatrice for a beat before turning back to the team. "Adam’s escaped, and he’s already on the move. He wants us to know he’s out there. He’s taunting us.”

“I’m surprised the media hasn’t caught wind of this,” JJ remarked, her brow furrowing as she scanned the disturbing images.

Her uncle’s response was a jarring contrast to the anxiety swirling around them. “That’s because I imposed a news blackout.”

“And they just went along with it?”

Sebastian’s gaze hardened slightly, as if he were used to such disbelief. “My wife and her family have a certain... influence. They know how to keep things quiet.”

The acknowledgment of Marjorie Sterling’s family's power was a reminder of the far-reaching connections they wielded both in political and industry circles. She knew that this kind of influence was both a shield and a sword, protecting her but also isolating her from others.

The assistant director continued, his voice a low, urgent murmur. “I’ve also instructed the Virginia PD to deny any links to The Sin Killer. They’re expecting us, but the decision to join is yours.”

Derek’s casual tone belied the seriousness of the situation. “You sure do lead a complicated life, Bee,” he said, raising his hand with a determined grin. “I’m in. What about the rest of you?”

As his declaration was echoed by the rest of the team, Bea felt a surge of gratitude mingled with a deep, unsettling self-doubt. Their support was a beacon in the darkness, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had done little to earn it.

Sebastian, standing in the corner, finally spoke up, his voice a low growl. “Don’t forget that motherfucker doesn’t just crave blood—he craves an audience. He’s not just coming for you, Beatrice. He’s coming for all of us. Brace yourselves.”

ROSSI CROSSED HIS arms as his eyes flicked from the photo back to the team, his voice a low rumble. "Adam Reagan is different from most killers we profile. He's not just driven by anger or compulsion. This man is meticulous—strategic. He doesn’t kill because he loses control. He kills because it is control."

Emily nodded, the wheels turning in her mind as she added her perspective. “It’s not about bloodlust with him—it’s about control. He doesn’t just want to end lives. He wants to control how it happens, when it happens, and how we react to it. The more fear he creates, the more power he feels.”

The Virginia Police Department officers, who had been quietly absorbing the discussion, stood alert, their expressions hardened. Beatrice could see the determination in their eyes as they prepared to join the manhunt. 

Hotchner’s eyes narrowed in concentration as he chimed in, “He fits the profile of a narcissistic sociopath. He needs to be seen, needs the recognition of his intelligence and superiority. It’s why he’s so meticulous with his victims. Every one of them is chosen for a reason—he makes sure they represent something to him, a flaw or a sin he feels he’s justified in punishing.”

Rossi’s voice grew darker. “And let’s not forget the religious aspect. The 'Sin Killer' moniker isn’t just for show. His victims were often chosen based on perceived moral failings. He carves crosses into them, uses Biblical references. He sees himself as some kind of executioner, delivering divine judgment. That’s what makes him so dangerous. In his mind, he’s not just a killer. He’s a redeemer, a man with a mission.”

Adam Reagan wasn’t just a killer. He was a man with a god complex, someone who believed his actions were righteous, justified. That made him more dangerous than anyone they had faced before.

Sebastian’s jaw clenched, his eyes flashing with anger. “Adam’s always been a fanatic, obsessed with cleansing what he deems sinful. Benedict Sterling was killed because he got too close. Adam’s not just playing games anymore. He’s hunting, baiting us. And he’ll keep doing it until we make a mistake.”

Finally, Beatrice’s voice broke the silence, soft but filled with an eerie understanding. “He’s methodical. He won’t rush his next move. Adam enjoys the game too much to end it quickly. He’ll wait, carefully select his next target, and make sure it hits close to home. He thrives on chaos, and right now, he knows he has us right where he wants us—reacting to him.”

Her mind snapped back to her niece, and an icy dread tightened in her chest. “Where is Chiara, Uncle? Is she safe?”

Sebastian’s eyes softened momentarily, but his voice remained steady. “Don’t worry, Beatrice. Your aunt’s security detail is with her. She’s en route to the safehouse now.”

“Are you sure she’s safe?” 

Her uncle met her gaze with a firm nod. “Absolutely. The detail’s priority is her safety. We’ve covered every angle. I won’t let that monster touch you or Chiara. Not on my watch.”

A few hours later, her eyes were fixed on the disassembled gun on her table, the whispers and smirks of the men around her barely registering. They doubted her skills, but she was focused, not bothered by their skepticism.

At exactly eight o’clock, she sprang into action. Her hands moved swiftly, assembling the pistol with precision. Within six and a half seconds, she had the gun reassembled and fired off a series of shots. Each bullet struck the target’s head dead-on. She remained calm and focused, showing no emotion.

Setting the gun down, she glanced at the men who had been sneering at her. Their expressions had changed from doubt to shock. With a subtle smirk, she gathered her belongings. The challenge now was to find her inner strength and resolve, needed to confront Adam. She couldn’t afford hesitation—she needed to be ready.

Raindrops began to pat against her head and the pavement, prompting Beatrice to lift her hand to feel them on her skin. She closed her eyes, remembering the last time she walked in the rain without an umbrella—it was the first time she had taken a life, her first target. The rain had felt like a cleansing ritual, washing away the blood from her hands and, perhaps, her guilt too. With a deep sigh, she raised her beret above her head and walked on, letting the rain soak through her clothes.

A sudden gust of wind whipped through, snatching her beret from her grasp. She cursed softly, turning to retrieve it. As she bent down, she noticed the rain had stopped hitting her.

Looking up, she saw Hotch standing over her, an umbrella extended to shield them both from the downpour. Beatrice frowned, her shoulders slumping as she stood up. "Please tell me you were following me, because this is starting to feel really strange."

"I was following you.” 

"Why?"

Hotch’s gaze dropped to her untied shoelaces. Beatrice followed his look, about to bend down to tie them herself, when he handed her the umbrella and knelt beside her. As he carefully tied her laces, Beatrice froze, her breath catching in her throat. His touch was gentle, his voice soft but firm. "I wanted to make sure you were safe," he said, meeting her eyes with a seriousness that matched the storm around them.

Her heart pounded. "I am safe, Agent Hotchner. And I can take care of myself."

Hotch’s gaze was unyielding as he stood up, taking the umbrella from her with a firm grip. “You didn’t even notice your shoelaces were undone until I pointed them out. It’s not a weakness to ask for help, Beatrice.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to drag any of you deeper into my mess.”

“You’re part of this team. Your problems are ours too.”

Beatrice’s frustration boiled over. She raised a trembling finger at him, her voice breaking. “You don’t understand! He won’t stop until he’s killed all of you to get to me. I can’t—” She choked on her words, her chest tightening. “I can’t lose anyone else. Especially not you, Hotch…”

Tears welled up in her eyes as she spoke, the thought of losing more people she cared about almost too much to bear. Her voice cracked with emotion. “I’m sorry. . . I’m so sorry I brought this onto you and your son. But I will keep you safe. I’ll protect all of you.”

“Beatrice. . .”

She was about to continue when Hotch’s raised voice cut through her frantic thoughts. “Beatrice!” He took her hands in his, his touch warm and grounding. His brown eyes locked onto hers, “We will catch him. You don’t have to be afraid.”

But I’m not afraid of him, she thought. I’m afraid he’ll hurt you or Jack. I could never forgive myself if anything happens to you, your son, and Haley.

The rain around them intensified, but Beatrice barely noticed. Her focus was solely on Hotch, finding solace in his presence. “You need to call Haley tomorrow,” she said urgently. “Tell her I’ll be sending marshals to guard her house. I can explain everything to her. Henry will add extra security if he knows.”

“Beatrice. . .” Hotch’s voice was soft, almost a whisper as he held her hands, trying to calm her racing mind.

She was about to respond when Hotch’s gaze held her firm, the rain pouring down around them, but their world seemed to stand still in that moment.

“None of this is your fault, Sterling.”

Yes, it is. I brought this all on us.

She placed her hand gently on his chest, right above his heart. “All I ask is that you stay safe,” she said, his voice earnest. “Aaron, please.”

As she felt the steady beat beneath her palm, Beatrice was overwhelmed by a torrent of emotions. When did her feelings for Hotch become so complicated? Why did his presence evoke such vulnerability in her, yet also a sense of security? The tug at her heart was both a comfort and a danger, especially now. She felt a desperate urge to escape these feelings, but part of her clung to them, afraid that letting go might mean losing a part of herself.

“Hotchner, I—” Her voice faltered, unable to bridge the chasm of her emotions. She looked at him, her mind racing with confusion and desire. A part of her wanted to confide in him, to lay bare her heart, but fear held her back. How could she explain the storm he stirred within her, the way he made her feel both protected and stripped bare?

The struggle to voice her feelings left her breathless. The moment made her realize that perhaps it was already too late. Her heart had already chosen its path, and despite her apprehensions, she found herself unwilling to run away from what she felt.

Her phone buzzed violently, shattering the fragile quiet between them. Beatrice snatched it up, her heart already racing as she saw the name on the screen. “Yes, Uncle?”

There was no preamble, no softening of the blow. Just Sebastian’s flat, chilling words: “Beatrice, Chiara’s been taken.”

Her blood turned to ice. “What?” 

“It’s Adam. He’s got her.”

BEATRICE STUMBLED INTO the room, her face pale and eyes wide with panic. The television was on, its volume turned up loud, casting a cold, flickering light across the walls.

“We’re here live at the scene of the abduction, where police are conducting an extensive search for Chiara Sterling. Authorities have confirmed that the suspect is Adam Reagan, also known as 'The Sin Killer.' Reagan, who has a notorious history of brutal crimes, is considered extremely dangerous. Police are urging anyone who might have seen anything unusual around the time of the abduction to come forward immediately.” The camera panned to a still image of Reagan, a cold, expressionless face that seemed to leer from the screen. The anchor continued, “The FBI has joined local police in the investigation, and they are utilizing all available resources. Senator Sterling has released a statement urging the public to remain vigilant and to report any tips that might aid in the search.”

“What happened?”

“Beatrice, I’m really sorry, but you can’t be involved in this case. You’re too emotionally compromised.”

“Too emotionally compromised?” Her voice shattered, the edge of hysteria breaking through. Her eyes brimmed with tears that threatened to overflow. “This is Chiara! My niece! Olivia’s daughter! How can you even—you told me you would protect her! You promised me, uncle!” She choked on her words, sinking into a chair as if the weight of her anguish had physically crushed her. Her mind was a storm of terror, each thought more agonizing than the last.  

“I don’t care about the damn protocol right now,” Beatrice said, her voice fierce but wavering with desperation. “I can’t just sit here and wait for updates while my niece is out there, possibly suffering. I need to be out there, searching, fighting—anything to help!” Her fists were clenched, knuckles white from the pressure. 

Penelope's hand shot up, trembling slightly. “Uh, everyone? I think I just got an email from Adam Reagan.”

Rossi nodded grimly, stepping toward the laptop. The screen flickered to life, revealing a live feed that made Beatrice’s breath catch in her throat. There, bound and terrified, were Chiara and another woman—both captives in a grim, dimly lit space. The sight was a knife to her heart, and she let out a shuddering gasp. Every fiber of her being screamed to look away, but she forced herself to remain focused. 

She sank into a chair, her hands gripping the armrests as if they could anchor her amidst the storm of her emotions. Penelope was already at work, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she attempted to trace the source of the video feed. Every movement, every flicker on the screen felt like a step closer to either salvation or disaster. 

Beatrice's stomach twisted as Adam's face filled the screen, his familiar voice dripping with mockery.

“Good evening, Beatr— Oh, look who it is,” he drawled, his thin lips curling into a smug smile. He positioned himself just enough to block the view of his captives, the shadows of their bound figures barely visible behind him. His eyes gleamed with a cruel amusement as he recognized the man standing beside her. “My, my, David Rossi. Time has been kind to you.”

Rossi smirked, but his eyes remained cold. “Can’t say the same for you, Adam.”

Adam chuckled, the sound low and menacing. “I thought you retired from the force.”

“And let people like you roam free? Not a chance.”

“You wound me.” the assailant feigned hurt, placing a hand to his chest dramatically. “Now, where’s my little girl? I know she’s there, listening. . . Show her to me.”

The blonde stiffened at his words, her pulse quickening. She wanted nothing more than to rip the screen apart, to end the sick game he was playing. But Rossi didn’t flinch, his voice steady as he responded, “No—”

Adam’s expression darkened, his eyes narrowing. “You don’t seem to understand, David. I have the power here. Not you.” 

Beatrice’s heart clenched in her chest. There, blindfolded, gagged, and bound, was her niece. Her small frame looked even more fragile in the dim light, and beside her was a woman with blonde hair, also tied and helpless. 

A clank of metal echoed from the background, and Adam reappeared, a predatory grin on his face. He held a knife, its edge gleaming as he twirled it carelessly in his hand. “Now, I’m going to give you all five minutes, and I want little Bea in front of that camera by then,” he said, his voice calm but filled with venom. He drew the knife across his neck in a slow, deliberate motion. “If I don’t see her by then. . .” He let the unspoken threat hang in the air, his smirk widening. “And trust me, it won’t be pretty.”

Her blood ran cold, but she forced herself to breathe, to think. Time was running out.

“Adam, what is it you—”

“Rossi,” Adam cut him off, his voice a vicious snarl. “I’m not falling for your negotiation tactics. Bring me Beatrice, or one of them dies!” His rage boiled over, and in a swift, brutal motion, he slashed the blonde captive’s leg. Her piercing scream tore through the speakers, echoing through the room.

"Help me, please! Ah!" the woman cried, writhing in agony. Beatrice’s heart shattered at the sound.

“Garcia?” 

Garcia was already frantically typing at her station, fingers flying over the keys. Her eyes were wide with panic, beads of sweat forming on her brow. “His signal’s bouncing across four different servers! It’s like chasing smoke. Every time I lock onto one, it splits again. He’s masking it—Wait a minute, someone else is in the system. They’re covering Adam’s tracks in real-time.”

Bea’s eyes scanned the code streaming across the screen. “No wonder he’s been so hard to trace. Adam’s not smart enough to pull off this kind of digital cover,” she muttered, her voice low and cold. “He’s a murderer, not a hacker.”

“Whoever this is, they’re good. They’re weaving in their own encryption algorithms, blocking our path at every turn. We’re getting played.”

The analyst stepped in without hesitation, pulling the laptop toward her. “Let me see. ” Her fingers took over, fluid and methodical as she dove into the code, tracing the network traffic. "He's relying on a cascade of open proxies. Classic misdirection, but those layers slow him down. This dude thinks he’s clever," she muttered, her eyes narrowing at the code streaming across the screen. “But no system is flawless. Everyone has a pattern, even him. We just need to hit them from a blind spot—something they won’t see coming.”

Penelope’s hands hovered over the keyboard, hesitation flickering in her eyes. “But what? They’ve covered all their bases. I’m trying to break through, but every time I get close, they patch up the hole.”

“We’ve been playing defense. Time to go on the offensive.”

“How?”

“We bait them. We make them think we’re attacking the same weak spots, let them block us, and then—” She tapped a few more keys, “—we ghost through the backdoor while they’re distracted.”

Her companion’s eyes widened. “That’s risky. They could trap us in a feedback loop and crash the entire system.”

“I know,” Bea said, her voice steely. “But we’re out of options. We’re being reactive. They’re calling the shots. If we don’t flip the script, we’ll never find Adam. And Chiara...”

“Alright, I’ll set up the decoy.”

Bea nodded, her fingers moving faster now, a plan taking shape. “And I’ll work the ghost channel. We need to overload their system, create enough noise that they can’t keep up.”

Garcia’s eyes flicked to the side, her voice low. “I’m setting up a false trail, pushing it through the usual servers. They’ll think we’re about to crack the main proxy. That’ll keep them busy.”

“Perfect,” Beatrice said, her eyes fixed on the code streaming across the screen. “Now, we hit them where they least expect it.”

Penelope’s fingers slammed down on the keys, sending a flood of false signals cascading through the network. The hacker’s defense faltered for a fraction of a second, just long enough for Beatrice to slip through the backdoor she’d created.

“I’m in!” Beatrice shouted, her eyes glued to the screen as the hacker’s digital defenses crumbled around them. “Locking them out in three, two. . .” She began to collapse the signal hops, one by one, watching as the system slowed, trying to keep up with their attack. 

Suddenly, the screen flickered. A message popped up in bold letters: You’re out of your league, Yellowjacket.

Beatrice didn’t flinch. “No. You’re in our system now.”

With a final keystroke, she initiated the lockout, severing the hacker’s access. The screen flashed as the system purged the connection, isolating Adam.

Penelope’s eyes widened. “Did we just—”

“We did,” the other confirmed, her voice steady. “The hacker’s locked out and I got his location too. Arlington, he's local. Let's bring him in for questioning. Now, I want you to trace Adam’s last location before the signal died, Garcia.”

“Hey, what’s taking you guys so long to decide? Show her to me, or the next cut won’t be so merciful.”

“Garcia, keep doing what you’re doing. Beatrice—over here,” Hotch’s voice cut through the chaos, his grip firm on her shoulder. 

“What are you doing, Hotchner?”

“He’s not going to wait. We need her to buy us more time.”

Her fingers slowed on the keyboard as his words sank in. The truth hit hard. They were close, but not close enough. Adam wasn’t giving them time.

Penelope, still at the laptop, gave her a sharp nod. “I’ve got this now, sir. Just give me time,” she whispered, her confidence steady despite the pressure.

The blonde stood firm in front of the camera, her heart hammering in her chest. She kept her face neutral, not giving Adam the satisfaction of seeing her fear. “I’m here now,” she said, her voice colder than she felt inside. “What do you want?”

Adam’s lips curled into a predatory smirk, his eyes gleaming with sick pleasure. He knew he had the upper hand, and he wanted her to know it too. “Now, we’re going to play a game,” he said, stepping to the side, revealing the trembling child behind him. His finger slid down her cheek, the touch slow and menacing. The child flinched but didn’t scream. Adam’s smile widened as if feeding off the terror in the air. “Choose one, Beatrice. Choose which one of them will live.”

Beatrice’s stomach twisted at the sound of his voice, dripping with malice. The room around her seemed to close in, the weight of her decision suffocating. The thought of choosing between two lives paralyzed her, a cruel echo of the nightmare she’d lived through with her father. 

Suddenly, Garcia’s voice broke the tension. “358 Telegraph Road, Stafford. They’re in a Baptist church!”

“Agent Morgan—” Sebastian started, but was interrupted.

“Prentiss and I will go.”

“Chopper’s waiting for you two downstairs.”

Beatrice’s pulse quickened with hope as Sebastian whipped out his phone, already notifying the team. Her gaze flickered toward Aaron, who gave her a quick, encouraging nod. Keep him talking. They were closing in. 

“You want me to play the same game that got my father killed?” she asked, forcing the words out. Every syllable tasted bitter, but she had to keep control.

The killer’s smirk deepened, his eyes flashing with a twisted sense of satisfaction. “Your father. . . yes, I remember him,” he said, his tone mocking, as if savoring the memory. “He was a smart man. A good man. He died saving you, didn’t he? Does that haunt you, Beatrice? Knowing that if you weren’t so weak, you could’ve killed me back then? Maybe your father would still be alive.”

Beatrice stood still, her heart racing beneath the cool mask she forced on her face. Aaron's hand hovered near the mute button, his voice low and steady as he whispered, “Don’t let him get inside your head.”

Her fists clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. “I’m not a soulless murderer like you,” she shot back, her voice tight with anger.

Adam’s smile faded slightly, but his gaze remained sharp, probing her. “Aren’t you, though? You know what I think? You and I—we’re the same. Cut from the same cloth.” He leaned closer to the camera, his voice low and venomous. “The only difference is, I embrace who I am. You—you lie to yourself.”

Bea swallowed hard. He was wrong, but his words clawed at the parts of her she hated to confront. She had killed. Over and over again. But unlike him, she had no pleasure in it. She killed to save lives, to protect people like the child now at Adam’s mercy. Adam killed for the thrill of it, to control, to destroy.

“No,” she said, her voice hardening. “The difference is, I kill to stop monsters like you. You kill because you are the monster.”

Adam’s eyes darkened, the smirk fading from his lips. He seemed to study her for a moment, as if trying to find a crack in her armor. But Beatrice didn’t give him one.

Seconds ticked by, and her breath felt shallow. They were close. If she could keep him talking a little longer, they might have a chance to save them.

Adam clapped his hands, sharp and mocking. “So, who’s it going to be, Bea?” he sneered, stepping closer to the child, his knife dangerously close to her trembling neck. “Will you save your sweet little niece and let this poor, innocent woman die? Or will you sacrifice Chiara?”

The blonde hostage sobbed, her voice shrill with desperation. “Please! Don’t kill me! I have a baby at home! Please! Save me! Please!”

Beatrice’s blood ran cold, but she kept her expression locked down, refusing to show any sign of weakness. Adam’s smirk widened at her silence, feeding off the power he thought he had over her.

“CHOOSE, BEATRICE!” His voice snapped with impatience, the knife now gleaming under the light as he slammed his fist against the wall. “Choose before I choose for you!”

Beatrice’s mind raced. Her niece, the woman. . . It was a cruel game, but Adam always thrived on cruelty. Stalling was her only option. The HRT team had to be close, but why hadn’t they moved in yet?

She swallowed the fear knotting her stomach and forced a calm, almost amused smile onto her face. “You know, Adam, for someone who claims to be so clever, you’ve really gotten predictable.”

His smirk faltered, just for a second. “Predictable? Is that what you think?” 

“You love games, don’t you?” she continued, buying herself more time. “But you’re getting sloppy. This whole setup—it’s too obvious. You’ve done this before. You want me to feel like I have control, like I can make a choice. But we both know I’m just a pawn in your game.”

Adam’s eyes darkened, his jaw clenching as he leaned in closer to the camera. “You’re not a pawn, Beatrice. You’re the queen. You’re the one who’s going to decide who lives and who dies. And if you don’t—” He drew the knife across the blonde’s cheek, just enough to draw blood. Her scream pierced the air. “I will.”

Beatrice’s heart pounded in her ears, but she refused to look away. “That’s where you’re wrong, Adam. I’m not going to choose because you need to be the one in control. You’re desperate for it. But this is slipping through your fingers, isn’t it?”

His eyes flickered with frustration, and she seized on it.

“You want me to believe I have the power, but you and I both know that’s not true. You’re terrified that if I don’t make a choice, you’ll lose the only thing keeping this together.” She paused, letting her words sink in. “And that terrifies you, doesn’t it?”

The assailant’s smile faded, his composure cracking just a little. “You think you’ve got this figured out?”

“I know you better than you think,” Beatrice said, her voice steady and calm. “You can’t stand it when things don’t go your way. That’s why you’re pushing so hard.”

Adam’s lips curled into a sneer, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of doubt. He slammed his fist against the wall again, the sound echoing through the screen. “You don’t get it, Beatrice. You’re not buying time. You’re wasting it. And I’m done waiting.”

Her pulse spiked, but she didn’t flinch. “You’re running out of moves, Adam. You can feel it, can’t you? The noose is tightening.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. He was unraveling, and she knew it.

Then, through her uncle’s live call with the HRT, the voice she’d been waiting for: “We’re in position.”

Relief washed over her, but she kept her face neutral, her gaze never leaving Adam. “This game’s almost over.”

Spencer’s voice cut in sharply, “Wait, something’s not right. Look at the walls behind the hostages,” he said, his tone precise. “They’re inconsistent with the typical architecture of a church. The texture is too uniform and the color too sterile. It’s almost as if the walls were constructed to resemble a church but are actually part of a different setting altogether.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Consider the ambient noise,” he continued, his voice steady with confidence. “There’s an unnatural echo that doesn’t fit with the layout of a church. It suggests a larger, more open space with sound-dampening materials—likely a warehouse or an industrial area. I think. . . we’ve been misled.”

Beatrice’s heart sank as she processed this new information. “No, I don’t think so. We got the location, Spencer. They’re in there. I know it. They should be.”

She heard the order in the loudspeaker: “Go, go, go!”

Her back straightened, her hands gripping the edge of the desk. “You’re done, Adam,” she said, voice cold and certain. “It’s over.”

He looked at her, then something strange flashed across his face. A slow, unsettling smile spread across his lips. “Is it?”

Her stomach dropped. What was that look? He stepped away from the camera, and for a brief second, the screen flickered. Then, the feed cut out.

“What—” Beatrice snapped her head toward Garcia, who frantically typed on the keyboard, trying to pull the video back up. “Hang on—give me a second,”

But then a voice crackled back into Beatrice’s ear, chilling her to the bone: “The church is empty. There’s no one here.”

The blood drained from her face. No.

Garcia’s hands froze on the keyboard, her face going pale as the truth sank in. “Oh my god, they're in the house next to it,” she whispered. “I am so sorry.”

The room was plunged into a suffocating silence, shattered only by the harsh, jagged crackle of the feed. Then, two sharp gunshots shattered the quiet, their sound reverberating through the speakers. Beatrice’s breath caught in her throat. She didn’t need to see the screen to know what had happened.

“No!” Her scream erupted from her, raw and guttural, a desperate, soul-rending cry that felt as though it might split her in two. Her voice, though loud, was swallowed by the crushing weight of her grief. Her entire body convulsed with the force of her sobs, each one a painful reminder of the life she couldn’t save. “No, Adam! Please—please don’t—”

Her own screams seemed to drown out any other sound, lost in the void of her despair. Tears poured down her face in torrents, hot and relentless, mingling with the sweat of her frantic fear. The screen remained dark, but the certainty of the gunshots was all she needed to know the truth.

Aaron’s arms enveloped her, his presence a tenuous lifeline in the sea of her anguish. Beatrice clung to him with a desperation that bordered on violence, her fingers digging into his shoulders as if he were the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. She thrashed against him, her body wracked with uncontrollable tremors as the agony of her loss consumed her.

Her sobs were a haunting symphony, interspersed with choked, gasping breaths that came too fast to be comforting. She felt as if her heart was being torn apart, each sob a knife twisting deeper into the open wound. Her cries were primal and fierce, their intensity muffled by the roar of her own despair. The world around her blurred as she heard the clamor of police officers moving in, their footsteps pounding against the floor. She barely registered the sensation of metal tightening around her wrists—handcuffs, she realized distantly, though the words “arrest,” “murder,” and “woman” were the only fragments she could grasp amidst her overwhelming grief.

Her uncle’s frantic shouts pierced through the fog, while JJ’s voice rose in an urgent plea, trying to hold back the officers. Aaron’s words were a frantic jumble, a desperate attempt to reason with them. But none of it registered in her mind. She was too far gone, too consumed by the searing pain of her loss.

A burly officer grasped her arm, forcing her towards the exit. Beatrice’s legs felt like lead; she barely moved, her body dragging as if it were made of stone. She was numb to their accusations, as if her heart had already been shattered into a million pieces.

“I didn’t—” she tried to say, but the words came out as a strangled whisper. It was too late. The reality of Chiara’s death had eclipsed everything else. Her daughter was gone, and with that, any sense of clarity or purpose evaporated.

Rossi was beside her, his voice breaking. “Beatrice, listen—”

But Beatrice couldn’t respond. She couldn’t even find the strength to look at him. As the officers escorted her away, her gaze remained fixed on the ground, her tears falling freely now. She could hear the distant commotion, the muffled arguments about her arrest, but it all seemed so far away. Her mind was consumed by one devastating truth:

Chiara Sterling was dead.

Her daughter. Her heart. Her light. Gone.

Nothing else mattered anymore.

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Wow, thank god I was able to update this after a whole year! I missed you guys! I hope I can now update regularly or at least, weekly! We're getting into the intense parts now! AAAAAAAAAA