Chapter Text
Smoke creates a hazy curtain as shadowed bodies huddle up to one another, whispering their secrets.
Cherries from cigarettes and cigars dot the air, like fireflies, adding to the grim atmosphere.
A dark-haired man with a five o'clock shadow cloaks himself in a corner table, sipping his Blue Label scotch. His eyes cut through the darkness predatorily, from one face to another, hunting for the right one. He knows he's in here somewhere, his partner narced on him at the slightest bit of pressure.
"Scumbag, no honor among thieves," he thinks.
He doesn't move, doesn't speak. He simply waits.
Finally, after nearly three hours he sees the one he's been looking for. He glances down at the small photo under his palm and back up to the face, reassuring himself. It's him.
Raising his glass, he finishes the drink in one swig, his throat tight with the charred oak and sweet peat aftertaste. He stands tossing a hundred and fifty on the table and folds himself into his jacket. He follows the man silently out the side door into the alley and once he knows they are alone, he grabs the man by the back of his coat, slamming him into the grainy brick.
The man shouts, "Gah! What' the hell-?"
"Tell me where he is!" He demands.
"Who!?"
"You know who, don't make me ask again!" He presses his forearm into the back of the man's neck, putting pressure against his face.
"Man, you're crazy, I ain't got no idea..." He throws his elbow back and catches his assailant in the face, knocking him back.
Turning, he pulls a gun from his waist band, but before he can clear the barrel a shot rings out. His face goes blank as he looks on at the psycho that jumped him. He's holding a gun, and walks towards him as he collapses onto his knees. Shit.
He holsters the weapon and kneels down, grabbing and shaking him by the jacket. "Tell me where he is, damnit. Where's Foyet!?"
His breath is thready, coming in gasps, "Foyet? Heh, you lookin'-for the-Reaper? Nobody-finds the Reaper."
"I need to find him, tell me!" he shouts.
"Nah," he gasps, "The Reaper-finds you." The man collapses dead and he is left staring down at him until sirens break the silence.
Hurriedly, he looks around; he's alone, he looks up and around the buildings, no cameras, that's lucky. He makes sure no one sees him as he re-enters the bar from the side door.
Thankfully, no one seems bothered by the sound of a gunshot.
Guess that's what you get in this part of town.
Everyone is a ghost.
Even ex-FBI Agents.
Elizabeth Turner is a hunter, going out and finding people who don't want to be found. But, like them, she's also a ghost.
Most of her clientele are the type of people who want to remain nameless. Higher ups in Government; Politicians, Judges...so when the Director of the FBI calls, she picks up her phone on the second ring, “Turner. Yes, Director, who’s the target? I’m sorry, who? You’re sure? I have to say I’m a little surprised. No, sir, it doesn’t change anything. Send over the file. I’ll be in touch.”
She hangs up and walks to her laptop checking her email. Opening the encrypted file that’s just arrived, she takes a deep breath and sighs. There, staring back at her is a picture of the former Unit Chief of the BAU, Aaron “Hotch” Hotchner.
“What in the world have you done, Aaron?” she says to herself. As she reads over the file, a picture begins to paint itself in her mind.
The Boston Reaper, George Foyet, somehow broke his way into a Federal Agents’ home and stabbed him nine times, intentionally not killing him, as part of his game.
He had, to use Foyet's word, warned Agent Hotchner. According to this, if Hotch would’ve backed off, made a deal, Foyet would have left him alone.
“We all know you’re not gonna do that, don’t we, Hotch?” she says plainly.
Hotch spent some time in the hospital and was eventually released, but there were consequences and Foyet came for his family. Brutally killing his ex-wife, Hailey and their young son, Jack.
Elizabeth clicks through the crime scene photos and has to turn away, “Damn.”
She reads on; the son of a bitch called him while he did it, but by the time Hotch got to them Foyet was gone and there was nothing he could do to save either of them.
The scene was so grizzly the FBI required him to undergo a psychological evaluation to see if he was mentally fit. Hotch passed, but his performance in the field soon became questionable. He was on edge, hallucinating his dead family, and seeing Foyet everywhere. One of his team members, SSA Derek Morgan, had to get physical with him because he nearly shot a civilian whom he swore was Foyet.
Then the Bureau put Hotch on a tight leash. He was relieved of his duties as Unit Chief and seldom traveled with the BAU. Mostly he was a desk jockey, made for running errands and filing paperwork. They had completely sidelined him, stripping him of who he was.
It was no surprise to anyone when he finally snapped. He’d let slip that he’d been searching for Foyet using Bureau funding and when he was confronted, he punched a Section Chief in the face and stormed out, leaving his gun and his credentials on the desk as he left.
After that, he dropped off the radar and no one has seen or heard from him since. The only reason he wasn’t being hunted by the Marshals, was because the Director thought he was an asset worth saving.
“…and that’s where I come in,” Elizabeth surmises. She clicks the file closed and picks up her phone. Pressing a button, she hears it connect, “It’s me. Yeah, I read it. Do you have any idea where he is? Ok, you know the drill, half now, half when I deliver. Yes, Sir, I understand, but you need to understand, this may get ugly. I may need to reach out to his former team. Understood.”
The line goes dead, she looks at herself in the mirror, “Ok, Hotchner, play time's over.”