Mission Report

“Rossi and JJ went to visit the crash site. What have you got for me, Reid?” Hotch states, grabbing the tablet from the other man.

Fear is plastered across Reid’s face. Prentiss is white as a sheet. It’s unsettling to see the team so shaken. Hotch begins to read the report. No rifling confirms that it’s a professional also making it impossible to track. As he reads the next line, the world slows. Confusion and anxiety washes over him. Soviet made. That can’t be right. Hotch takes a deep breath before telling Morgan to get the others on the phone.

“So what are we thinking, Aaron, history buff or former Soviet agent?” Rossi asks, trying to find a more logical answer than a former soviet assassin killing old Vietnam vets.

Hotch sighs; he’s at a loss. As Garcia explains, it’s not hard relatively speaking to find surplus Soviet weapons dealers, but the chances of someone using those in a multiple homicide like this is slim. Your average history buff isn’t going to be using the guns outside of maybe the range. Morgan points out that the skill level would match that of a former KGB agent or God forbid a current agent.

“Prentiss, would your mother have any Moscow connections that could help us?” Hotch asks. There is silence as Prentiss looks blankly off into space. “Emily?”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” her voice is hollow and shaky. “I think I know who the unsub is.”

The team looks at her expectantly. She glances up at Hotch, eyes filled with fear and colour gone from her face. He hasn’t seen her this scared since Doyle. A chill spreads across his body as if the room drops twenty degrees.

“The Winter Soldier,” She says in a hushed tone, fearing a louder one would cause her to drop dead on the spot.

The team doesn’t speak for a few seconds then JJ, over the speaker, says calmly, “Emily, he’s a myth. An intelligence boogeyman used to scare new agents and protect egos.”

“Doyle believed in him.”

***

Rossi and JJ pull up to the crash site. The body has already been moved, but the car remains split by the tree. If there were footprints, they are gone now, disturbed by the prints of the officers called to the scene. Rossi isn’t confident they’ll be able to get anything from this scene.

“So who is this Winter Soldier fellow?” he asks.

JJ places a hand on her hip and leans through the car window, “The stories of his assassinations date back to the early Cold War; some say he killed JFK.”

Rossi chuckles; he’s heard that one before. Next they’ll be saying Howard Stark didn’t die driving under the influence. JJ makes a slight humpf noise; he walks over to check on her. She runs her finger along a flat piece of broken glass still attached to the window. The slant of the glass is at the opposite angle of the rest of the glass. It wasn’t broken in the initial crash. They might not agree with the Winter Soldier theory, but the old man certainly wasn’t just killed in a car crash.

***

Garcia is on her fifth cup of coffee, and she’s beginning to hear colours. The classified military record of the two men is giving her ulcers. She’s too young to have ulcers. Whoever designed the encryption was very thorough, but luckily so is Penelope Garcia: Tech Extraordinaire.

The file pops open like a cracker on Christmas. She sorts through the information; her horror growing the deeper she goes. Clicking on the call button, she prays to hear the sweet sweet voice of her teammates and not just the electric hum around her. The desire to pour bleach on her eyes is strong.

“What have you got, Garcia?” says the very wonderful and monotone voice of Hotchner.

“A whole lot of bad. Our two vets? Horrible people. They served in a unit of scientists who developed what I think are biological weapons. The unit was not shut down because of ethical concerns, no, instead it was shut down because their designs were ending up in enemy hands.”

“There was a mole?”

“That’s what the theory was, sir. It looks like they were under investigation for months by the government.”

A distant Morgan-like voice asks, “Did they have a suspect?”

“John Zieglar, brought to the U.S. after World War II with his father,” Garcia hums in surprise. “Whatta ya know John Zieglar lives just outside of town.”

“Nice work, Baby girl,” a now closer Morgan says. “Just need you to look into one more thing for us: the Winter Soldier.”

Garcia mouths “Winter Soldier” to herself. The clacks of her keyboard fill the room. Baseline impression? Not a lot of information on him. Upon a second more in depth look? Still not a lot of information. The guy’s a sneaky little devil. Good thing sneaky little devils are Garcia’s specialties. It doesn’t take her long to stumble upon a wall, an angry giant fire wall of death. She yells in frustration. She was hoping the same channel that got her into the other file would get her into this one, but it seems the encryption has adapted. It’s a smart little math equation, but she’s smart, she’ll write her own funky little math equation. Her phone rings.

A firm voice speaks, “Miss Garcia, I’m going to have to ask you to stop what you are doing.”

“Who is speaking?” she asks slowly.

“Agent Sitwell — I’m with the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division and you’re trying to hack one of our files. We don’t appreciate that.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to offend the Strategic Homeland — uh — Service, but while I have you one the phone do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Agent Sitwell has already hung up. Garcia leans back in her chair, releasing the breath she didn’t realize she had been holding. She gives herself a moment before getting out of her chair and leaving the safety of her little cave. Her heels click loudly against the hard floor of the FBI hallway. She marches her beautiful booty into the office of Kevin and then into his arms. She buries her head into his shoulder; a tear slips from her eye. He rubs circles on her back, a little confused.

“What am I doing?” Garcia says, looking up at Kevin then promptly leaving. Her face burns a bright red.

It was just one stupid phone call it doesn’t mean anything. Actually, it means a lot. She’s going to find out what is in that file even if it kills her — not like kills her dead because that man wasn’t threatening her. It’s fine. She’s fine. She needs to drink less coffee. Maybe the call didn’t even happen? It was all one big caffeine hallucination. No, it happened. It happened and she’s going to figure out what this Strategy Homestead Security is trying to hide.