Derek Morgan leaned against the SUV with a smirk, arms crossed as Jason approached the precinct steps. It was early—sun barely up over the Seattle skyline—but Morgan had already been through two energy drinks and one run through the case file. He didn't like loose ends. Or new faces with too many secrets.
"You the Delta golden boy?" Morgan asked, his voice smooth but edged like a switchblade.
Jason slowed his walk, sized him up without flinching. "Depends. You the BAU's PR rep or their enforcer?"
Morgan smiled wider, the kind of grin that dared you to swing first. "I'm the guy who's been doing this long before the Bureau handed you a badge for surviving a few black ops."
Jason's gray eyes didn't waver. "You track killers. I used to be one. We're both good at our jobs."
Morgan's smile faded just a touch. Jason brushed past him.
"Nice chat," he said.
"Don't get too comfortable, Cole," Morgan called. "One war story doesn't make you a profiler."
Jason turned, walking backward now. "You're right. But surgical strikes and human psychology? That makes me something else."
Inside the Command Center
The team had gathered. The board now had four women posted—Christine Chen had gone missing that morning, just like Jason predicted. The unsub was escalating. More brazen. Less time between strikes.
"His pattern's breaking," Reid said, scanning timestamps. "The time between abductions is shrinking."
Jason stepped forward. "He's building to something. He's rehearsing. These weren't the real targets."
Morgan scoffed. "What do you mean 'rehearsing'? These are women, not practice dummies."
"They are to him," Jason replied, eyes cold. "Every abduction is smoother, faster, more efficient. He's refining his process. These are dry runs. That means the real target is someone close to him. Someone he's building courage—or confidence—to take."
Hotch nodded. "He's right. The timeline supports that."
Morgan gave a half-glance to Gideon, then folded his arms. "Still doesn't explain how Rambo here is two steps ahead of everyone else."
Jason turned, not angry, but precise.
"You want to measure scars, Morgan? Fine. You broke up gangs in Chicago. You've kicked down doors. I've dragged friends' bodies through minefields and interrogated warlords with piano wire. I'm not here to compete with you. I'm here to stop a ghost. And right now? That ghost is winning."
The room went still. Then Gideon cleared his throat.
"Enough. Both of you."
Hotch leaned over the table. "We focus on the next move. Where does he go from here?"
Jason looked at the map, traced the triangle of abductions with his finger. His mind clicked again—like gears falling into place.
"He's moving in a spiral. The next hit—if I'm right—lands downtown. Somewhere public. Somewhere personal."
Reid looked up from his notes. "Why public?"
"Because he wants to be seen," Jason said. "This is about power. Control. He's done hiding."
Morgan stepped forward, all the tension from earlier still simmering beneath his skin. "Then we stop hiding too."
12 Hours Later — Seattle Public Library
The BAU had coordinated with local PD to stake out a list of potential targets based on employee records, connections to the unsub's workplace, and proximity to the first victims. Jason and Morgan were stationed together—against both of their preferences.
"This is a waste of time," Morgan muttered, scanning the crowd through the tinted window. "If he's escalating, he won't hit a place with this much security."
Jason didn't answer. His eyes were focused on a man walking along the far edge of the plaza—jacket too heavy for the weather, hands in his pockets, face downward but scanning people as he passed.
"There," Jason said, voice sharp. "Ten o'clock. Doesn't match the flow. Every other pedestrian's looking for something—coffee, friends, phones. He's watching reactions."
Morgan sat forward. "Could be a cop. Could be security."
"Could be our unsub."
They moved in sync, exiting the vehicle on opposite sides, approaching the man with practiced ease. As they closed in, the man turned and bolted—shoving past a tourist and sprinting into the underground parking garage.
Morgan was on him first, chasing full speed, radio crackling. "Suspect heading into parking deck—south entrance, Level Two!"
Jason followed close behind, cutting left through a side stairwell. Years of Delta conditioning turned the chase into instinct—his footsteps light, breathing controlled, calculating every corner.
The man reached a car, fumbled with keys.
Too late.
Morgan tackled him into the concrete. Jason was there a second later, yanking the keys away and pulling a small injector pen from the suspect's jacket.
"Sedative," he said. "Homemade."
Morgan cuffed the man, panting, sweat on his brow. He glanced over at Jason, who stood there calm, composed, not even winded.
Morgan nodded, grudgingly. "You've got skills, I'll give you that."
Jason returned the nod. "You're not so bad yourself… for a cop."
Morgan cracked a smile. "We might even make a decent team. As long as you don't start calling me 'sir.'"
Jason smirked. "Not a chance."
Back at the Precinct
Christine Chen was found later that night—alive. Traumatized, drugged, but alive.
Hotch debriefed the team. Gideon watched Jason carefully, then pulled him aside afterward.
"You're not just here to join the BAU," Gideon said. "You're chasing something. Something from before."
Jason didn't deny it. "The men I hunted overseas… some of them were monsters. But there's something worse about the ones who hide behind smiles and PTA meetings."
Gideon nodded slowly. "Well. Welcome to the BAU."