oh oh no
The small squad car cruises down the highway. Morgan misses the protection that the FBI vehicles have; he feels naked like a nudist in a bullfight. It’s a quiet ride, though. Night settles in the sky.
As the car passes the city limits sign, a motorcycle pulls out behind them. The lights are off, and it’s too dark to see the driver’s face. Morgan places his hand on top of his gun ready to draw if necessary. Wilkins increases the speed of the car; the motorcycle matches it.
Morgan lifts his radio and reports, “We’ve got a tail.”
Reid’s voice crackles, “Stay on the radio. I’m alerting the nearest group now.”
The motorcycle is gaining on them. Wilkins presses the accelerator as far as it can go, but it isn’t going to be enough. Morgan unholsters his gun. The air is thick with fear; the only sounds are the roaring of the engine and Zieglar mumbling a prayer. No god can help them when the devil already grips their fates. The motorcycle swerves to meet the driver side door. Morgan can’t bring himself to turn his head; he knows what he’ll see.
A masked man stares in at them; his eyes are a cold silver. There’s no life to them as if he were a dead man walking. Morgan holds up his gun as Wilkins quickly rolls down his window. He fires at the front tire, hitting his mark. The motorbike comes out from under the unsub. A cold chill runs down Morgan’s spine as he watches in shock as the unsub keeps pace with the car on foot before grabbing hold of the side of the car. He grabs the passenger side door and rips it off, tossing it behind him. Zieglar screams and crawls backwards to the opposite end of the backseat. The man swings into the car, kicking Zieglar out the other end.
The soldier takes a gun out of his pocket and presses it against the driver’s seat. Wilkins slumps in his seat, his head landing on the car horn. A discombobulated Morgan fumbles with the safety on his gun.. Before he gets the change to pull the trigger, the unsub strips the barrel from the gun. Morgan looks at it shocked while the unsub slips out the gaping hole where the passenger door should be.
Glass scraps past Morgan’s face as the car veers into a ditch. The door swings open as a sore Morgan crawls out of it and lands in a heap on the grass. He heaves himself off the ground, using the car as a balance. The unsub stands above Zieglar’s body; there’s a flash. Turning his attention away from the certainly dead Zieglar, the unsub struts towards Morgan.
Morgan takes the first swing. It lands, but has no impact. He takes another swing. The soldier catches his arm and twists it. Morgan screams. The other man pauses for a second. Sirens. Hotch is coming, only a few more minutes. Morgan barely registers the gun placed at his gut before he feels the burning heat. He stumbles backwards, crashing to the ground. The unsub doesn’t spare him a second glance before he fades into the night.
***
Reid paces in front of his computer monitor. Something doesn’t sit right with him. The unsub knew the exact plan of movement; he knew the first two cars were a diversion. The only people who knew the plan was the team and Wilkins unless… Reid tears through the station.
The interrogation room is empty. He runs his hand underneath the bottom of the table. Near the center is a piece of tape and a small wire.
“What’s up, doc?” the young deputy says, leaning up against the door frame.
Reid freezes, retracting his hand quickly. He stumbles over an excuse that is painstakingly bad. There’s nothing stopping the wince that follows. The deputy steps into the room. He’s tall, strong. Reid wishes he had taken Morgan up on those invites to work-out.
“So you read those German notebooks? Pretty crazy stuff.”
He tries to go for the door, but the deputy steps in front of him. “I need to get back to the computer.”
The deputy closes the door and clicks the lock. Reid swallows hard.
***
Blood soaks Prentiss’s blazer as she presses it against the bullet wound in Morgan’s gut. Hotch speeds down the highway. Morgan mumbles something about eyes; he isn’t making much sense.
“Reid, where’s the nearest hospital?” Hotch says into the radio. “Reid?”
“Hotch,” Prentiss says slowly. “The unsub knew exactly which car to target.”
“There’s another mole.”
This case has more layers than an onion. Reid is alone at the station with the mole, but that’s a bridge to cross in a second. Hotch grabs the phone out of his pocket and dials Garcia.
“Garcia, I need you to point me in the direction of the nearest hospital.”
“Hospital?”
“Morgan’s been shot.”
Garcia becomes a flurry of keystrokes and slightly confusing directions. Hotchner flies through the hospital parking lot, pulling up to the E.R. A group of nurses run out to meet them. They carefully lift Morgan out of the car and onto a stretcher. Hotchner’s phone buzzes against his breast pocket. Prentiss glances up at him.
“Get in,” He orders. “There are reports of shots fired at the station.”