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The last time he'd traveled to Terra Mesa, New Mexico it had been on the BAU's private jet. The landing had been smooth as silk, disembarking had been a breeze and two sleek black GMC Tahoes had been waiting for them on the tarmac.

This time, Aaron Hotchner had flown coach on a plane in serious need of some upgrades. His tray had kept falling back into his lap every time the boy seated in front of him kicked and bounced and nothing but static had come across the headphones when he'd put them on to watch the in-flight movie.

Security out of Washington hadn't been that bad, he'd merely flashed his credentials, Prentiss there to flash hers' and he'd been asked to eject the clip of his standard issue Glock and stash the familiar weapon in his carry on bag. Security into New Mexico was a different story and Hotch had sat quietly in a non-descript office, answering questions and waiting for the head of Security to make the necessary calls to Washington to verify his credentials.

It had taken well over an hour for the appropriate forms to be filled out, to request forms, to be signed by the appropriate people in Washington, the New Mexico field office and then back to the airport.

It was the longest Hotch had sat up since he'd been released from the hospital and cleared to fly and though he was well versed on how to play nicely with the locals, the pain in his torso was starting to wear on his nerves. By the time he was finally released to gather his bags the corners of his mouth were pinched with pain and his dark eyes seemed sunk into the sockets.

"If you didn't insist upon carrying a gun you would have been out of there much sooner," John Blackwolf's voice, its tones a familiar mixture of superior amusement and dry logic sounded from somewhere over Hotch's left shoulder.

"And you can keep your opinion to yourself," Hotch replied bluntly, not even pretending to mind his manners around the man who had become a valued, if long distance, friend over the years.

"Carry your own bags then," Blackwolf responded without rancor as he pushed away from the wall and fell into step beside the injured agent. "Let them be the symbol of the weight of sarcasm you carry in your soul."

"Do you lay awake at nights coming up with these pearls of wisdom?"

"They come to me in dreams."

"I hear Ambian can help you with those."

"White man drugs," Blackwolf snorted. "If I want to have whacked out visions and the munchies I'll eat a proper does of peyote."

Normally Hotch would have had a comeback, something about magic mushrooms and their general affect on Blackwolf's formative years but he was too tired to keep up their habitual banter. Strangely enough it was when Hotch didn't say anything that the muscular Indian reached out and appropriated the suitcase out of the FBI agent's hand.

They walked along in companionable silence through the airport parking lot, headed not for a shiny black SUV but Blackwolf's beat up, sand colored truck. The dry dessert air made Hotch feel a little light headed and he was grateful to climb into the truck even as he struggled not to exhibit any sign of fatigue.

Blackwolf wasn't fooled but he kept his mouth shut as he loaded up the other man's bags into the back of the truck and walked around to the driver's side. He'd been surprised when David Rossi had contacted him a week ago, disturbed when the man had brought him up to speed on the recent events in Aaron Hotchner's life. Blackwolf had readily agreed to make himself available when Hotch 'decided' that coming to New Mexico to recover was a good idea.

Blackwolf was no fool. Though he had never met David Rossi in person, he'd heard enough about the man from Hotch to work out how it had all gone down. A direct approach would never work, not with a hard head like Aaron but a discreet suggestion here, a logically argued nudge there and a bit of a loving strong arm delicately applied and soon enough Blackwolf's phone had been ringing.

He'd only seen Hotchner a couple of times in the past few years. The odd lecture in the East, Aaron would drive up to catch it and the two would go out to lunch to sharpen their wits on each other. Beyond that, there were phone calls, sometimes just the joshing of two friends; sometimes Hotchner would use Blackwolf as a sounding board. A case wasn't always involved, just Aaron testing out that 'perspective' theory.

Blackwolf didn't know if the FBI man applied any of what they talked about into the field but the conversations seemed to do Hotch good and were enjoyable for both men. Blackwolf understood that, despite the ferocity with which they could debate everything from procedure to why the sky was blue, he and Hotch made good friends. They both understood the pressure and responsibility of the job and they were both alpha personalities who didn't let people in on their inner thoughts, though Blackwolf liked to think he was a bit better at sharing than Hotchner.

Of course, Blackwolf had once pointed out that bottomless caves were better at giving up their secrets than Aaron Hotchner.

Despite all that, Rossi had obviously profiled something in their friendship that had caused the older BAU agent to set this visit up. If Hotch had been clearer in his own head, he probably would have recognized just how thoroughly he'd been profiled but it was yet another testament to just how badly Foyet's attack had shook the senior SSA that he'd barely protested the dual machinations of his team and a man he counted as a rare, good friend.

It also didn't hurt, Derek Morgan had pointed out, that putting Hotch on the Reservation with Blackwolf was about as close as they were going to come to getting Hotchner to accept 'protective custody' while he healed.

The ride back to the Reservation was a quiet one until Blackwolf turned off the paved road and started heading up a rutted dirt path towards his small house. The truck certainly did not have the suspension of one of the FBI's Tahoes and Hotch winced at every bounce.

"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you," he accused his host without any real heat.

"Dug some fresh ones in anticipation of your visit, Captain America," Blackwolf responded cheerfully, even as he genuinely tried to steer around the worst of them.

Hotch grunted and tried to brace the best he could for the remainder of the ride up to the house. It seemed an eternity and when the truck finally stopped, Hotch caught himself panting a little as the healing wounds around his abdomen put up a group effort protest.

Blackwolf pretended to ignore the way his friend sat in the car, gripping tightly to the door arm, he knew he'd get no thanks for an inquiry after Hotch's health. Instead, he got out and deftly removed all three bags from the back of the truck, even the carry on with the much debated firearm resting inside.

"I could get that," Hotch protested, well aware of Blackwolf's distaste for guns.

"Yup," the Indian agreed even as he simply started walking towards the house with the bags in his hands.

Rolling his eyes, Hotch began the delicate operation of extracting himself from the truck without looking like he was in pain. Not that the few lizards laying about sunning themselves seemed to care, though the raven in the tree peered down at him curiously. Fine, there was no one around to see him wince but it was the principal of the matter, personal pride.

"You are one stubborn, son of a bitch,"

Hotch's lips twitched as he remembered Rossi standing at the foot of his hospital bed, watching him try to tie his shoes, then he grunted softly as his feet hit the hard dessert earth, setting off a cacophony of aches and pains. Gripping the side of the door as he breathed through the discomfort, Hotch didn't feel too stubborn at the moment. In fact, all he felt was beaten down, out maneuvered by a man he had captured and trapped in his own head, questioning himself again and again.

Should I have taken that deal?

"Hey, you coming in or you going to hug my truck for a bit longer," Blackwolf's voice cut through Hotch's self doubt and he gave his friend an impatient wave.

"Its better company," Hotch said dryly as he pushed the door shut and began to make his way across the space from the truck to the house.

Despite the stitch in his side, the ache in his abdomen and the stab of pain running along his left arm, Hotch was grateful that Blackwolf stayed up on the porch, making no move to come down and help him. Their strange friendship had been born out of mutual respect and Hotchner appreciated the other man respecting his need to be independent and move on his own.

It had been a sticking point back in Washington. As much as Hotchner loved his team, they had all been in danger of getting shot if they had continued to hover around him.

Prentiss had insisted on driving him, everywhere. Morgan refusing to let him exit a building or enter his apartment without first making a sweep of the area and deeming it 'clear'. Reid's offers to read to him, play chess or cards were kind and Hotch felt genuinely like a heel turning him down but the drugs were muddling his head and he really hadn't wanted much company.

JJ's awkwardness had been painful to watch. They had bonded in the past months over their shared experience of being parents working a horrific job that kept them away from their young children. Now, Hotch could see it in JJ's eyes, she didn't know if talking about Henry was 'allowed' now that Jack was effectively gone from Hotch's life and Hotch wasn't ready to reassure her. He hoped to be, in time but just right now, it hurt too much.

Then there was Penelope. Penelope bless her heart was like a mother bear after the man who had harmed her cub. He appreciated the vigor with which she was writing programs to track any possible hint of Foyet anywhere in the world but at the same time, he didn't need to hear every time she thought there had been a sighting. It wasn't that he wanted her to stop but each time his heart jumped and thoughts of spending Christmas with Jack raced through his mind in the split second it took her to explain that it was a false lead.

He knew she wouldn't give up, hell he knew his whole team wouldn't give up and he was unspeakably grateful to them for that but still, he needed to get away from it. Away from the coddling, the protecting and the promises he wanted to believe in but couldn't.

Reaching the low porch, Hotch grabbed at the stout wood column holding up the overhang and hauled himself up the three steps till he was level with Blackwolf. The Indian watched him with inscrutable black eyes, his weathered face giving away nothing until his lips split in that wide, white smile of his.

"Don't," Hotch said, holding up a finger and hopefully preempting whatever smart ass remark was about to come out of that smile.

"I was just going to say…" Blackwolf began, teasingly.

"Something clever about my making it up the steps, I'm sure."

"Well, technically you needed the column's help to get up the steps, so I'm not sure we can count that as you making it up the steps."

"An inanimate object does not count as 'help'."

"It totally counts as help, just as the truck's door 'helped' you stand up."

"You know, there's a psychological term for people who feel the need to anthropomorphize everything."

"No kidding?"

"Keep it up and I'll call Dr. Reid and let him explain it to you, in detail."

"Get in the house, Aaron."

Smirking at having won with the threat of sicking his youngest team member on his friend, Hotch made his way on into the small, tidy house.

Blackwolf lived alone but unlike many bachelors, his home was neat and, well … homey. The Indians who lived on the reservation with him had gifted him over the years with handmade blankets and other items that were proudly displayed about the living area. A well made leather couch separated the living room from the kitchen and dinning area, hand made tables resting on either end of the couch as well as in the dinning room.

The one concession to 'modern man'-ism was the flat screen television that hung on the wall across from the couch. Other than that, the house looked like it could have been lifted from just about any time in Native American history.

"After much debating with myself, a spirit walk, close introspection with nature and a few puffs on the peace pipe, I decided to give you the bedroom."

"I'd be fine on the…" Hotch began to argue but Blackwolf cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"No understandie the white man's stupid," he said, deliberately making his accent heavy and carrying Hotch's bags on through the door in the back that lead to the single bedroom.

Rolling his eyes, Hotch shook his head, followed along obediently as he muttered darkly.

"I have got to remember to properly thank Rossi for this 'great idea' of his."

A couple hours later, Blackwolf stepped out of his house and sat down on the porch, exhaling a deep breath. Hotchner was finally asleep after insisting he didn't need a nap, an insistence that had failed him when he'd almost fallen over in the bathroom. Though he was being as careful as possible not to show it, Blackwolf was shocked and infuriated at how sunken and beaten his friend looked.

Hotchner had always been pale, despite his dark hair and eyes, years of working in an office environment, years of overworking in an office environment having kept his skin fair and the weight of his job put shadows in and under his eyes but nothing like this. While he certainly hadn't been thrilled to hear about Foyet's attack on his friend, it was nothing compared to the cold rage that had run through him when he'd seen just how much damage the psychopath had wrought.

The physical wounds would heal, Hotchner was a strong and healthy man but it didn't take a profiler to see the psychological trauma that would take so much longer to recover from. Blackwolf ran his hand down along his ponytail, smoothing out the soft hair in a pensive gesture before he dug his cell phone out of his pocket. Flicking through the list of contacts, he landed on the one he was looking for and pressed 'call'.

"Rossi," the response came after the second ring.

"Hey, it's me."

"Mr. Blackwolf, it's good to hear from you. I assume Hotch is all settled in?"

"Taking a nap as we speak."

"Did he actually lie down of his own accord or fall down?"

"Half and half."

"Sounds about right. Listen, I'm going to give you the names and contact numbers of a couple people in our New Mexico field office. If you see anything out of the ordinary…"

"Agent Rossi, no disrespect but Mr Foyet is more than welcome on Reservation." Blackwolf's voice sounded positively urbane, unless you were sensitive to the under currents, the promise that if Foyet came into Blackwolf's territory, he was going to meet a painful and gruesome end.

There was a pause but something told Blackwolf that Rossi was grinning, darkly.

"Save us some parts."

"Yeah."

"Call if you need anything."

"Hey, don't take this the wrong way but …don't call."

There was another pause but again, it was of a sort were Blackwolf could almost picture Rossi nodding in unspoken agreement to what the Apache was asking.

"Fair enough. We'll try our best on this end but you better hide the battery to his cell phone if you think he's not going to be checking in every day."

"I have a hatchet and know how to use it."

"On that note, I bid you a good evening, Mr. Blackwolf," Rossi's voice was amused.

"Agent Rossi," Blackwolf acknowledged with gruff politeness before disconnecting the call.

Figuring that Hotch was going to be asleep for a couple of hours, Blackwolf settled into his favorite chair on the porch and picked up some school papers he needed to grade. It was quiet work, something he could do with half his mind churning on the problem of how to help his friend.

That Hotch's very soul was as cut up as his torso was obvious to anyone who knew the man. What was perhaps less obvious was the fact that the man was going to be his own worst enemy when it came to closing up those wounds. If the wounds could be closed at all, what with the pieces inhabited by his family missing until the madman, Foyet, was found.

The sun was starting to set behind the distant mountains when Hotch surfaced from the still house. His dark hair was ruffled from where he'd started to toss and turn in his sleep and though he looked less likely to keel over, Blackwolf was concerned that the nap hadn't seemed to do more good.

"I've seen tumble weeds that look better than you," he said by way of a greeting, eying his friend askance as he marked on a paper.

"Listen, every tie I own were unceremoniously kidnapped and are currently being held ransom by a very feisty, brightly dressed blonde computer genius who uses fluffy pens."

"Good for her," Blackwolf said without missing a beat. "Yet you still act like you've starched your underwear."

Standing up, the shorter man moved passed his friend and on into the house. With the ease of long familiarity, Blackwolf turned on lamps, bathing the interior in a warm amber glow that seemed simply an extension of the rich, fading sunset outside.

Hotch trailed along, not sure what to do with himself but trying to bluff his way through the awkwardness. Blackwolf headed for the kitchen, waving the taller man to one of the straight backed chairs at the small kitchen table.

"Do you have your medications?" The Apache asked as he dug into his fridge and began to pull out casserole dishes.

"Don't need to take anything till bed time," Hotch hedged, getting as comfortable as he could on the chair.

"Aren't you supposed to take antibiotics on a full stomach?"

"I've been off those for 3 days; it's just the pain killers now."

"Ah," Blackwolf turned on the oven and shoved the dishes in to heat, then pulled down dishes and utensils. "Here, be useful and set the table before you start profiling the contents of my Frigidaire."

Hotch had the grace to give a small, half smile as he stood up and began to set out two places.

"Sorry," he began, attempting an explanation but for once his politically glib tongue failed him and he ended up shrugging uselessly.

Blackwolf shrugged and turned to pull a beer out of the fridge in question.

"You're a classic workaholic who has been forced into downtime, combined with a mind full of images and thoughts that you want nothing more than to escape from. You'd profile ants at the moment just to keep from having to face some of the scenarios you're torturing yourself with."

He held the beer out towards Hotch who, after a moment's hesitation, reached for it.

"I shouldn't mix alcohol with my pain meds," he said, dodging Blackwolf's accurate profile of his current mental state.

"If I thought you were taking anything stronger than Tylenol, I wouldn't have offered," Blackwolf retorted, willing to bet his truck that while a bottle of Tylenol had made it into Hotch's bags, the man's prescription painkillers had 'accidentally' gotten left back in Washington.

The slight duck of the taller man's head told Blackwolf, he'd have won that bet.

"So," Hotch began, shifting the conversation and opening his beer. "What's for dinner?"

"Venison stew and corn bread," Blackwolf answers, grinning with delight at the word 'cornbread'.

"Looks like you could lay off the cornbread," Hotch needled, waving his bottle in the direction of Blackwolf's waistline.

"You still couldn't touch me in a knife fight," the words left Blackwolf's mouth before his brain had a chance to filter what he was saying and he winced as he say what scant color there was drain from Hotch's face. "I'm sorry."

It was said quickly and sincerely but Hotch shook his head and waved off the apology.

"It's all right, can't stick my fingers in my ears every time I hear the word 'knife'."

Besides, before he'd be cleared back into the field, he'd have to be able to convince the department's shrink that he could engage a suspect in a hand to hand knife fight without running away screaming like a little girl.

Best work on convincing myself first Hotch thought to himself, his lips compressing as a wave of determination, to overcome each and every weakness Foyet had tried to inflict upon him, washed over him..

Blackwolf watched the emotions play across a face that could be as unreadable as a wall and he inwardly cursed Foyet to every spirit in his belief system.

The two men continued to stand in the small kitchen, the awkward silence filling the room till Hotch moved to sit down at the table. Setting his beer close to his plate, he pushed his fingers through his dark hair, further disheveling his appearance.

"I can't … talk about it," he admitted quietly.

"Understandable," Blackwolf said his tone devoid of any sort of judgment.

"But I'm going to need to," Hotch continued, almost to himself.

Checking the temperature on his oven, Blackwolf got himself a glass of water and walked over to sit down at the table with his friend.

"Aaron, you've done this job long enough to know the more you keep inside, the greater the power it will hold over you and soon it will be the shadows making your decisions, not you."

"I know, John," Hotch said. "I start to get there, you know? I put the emotions and the images into what I think are the perfect words and then I go to speak them and my throat closes up."

"Did you scream?"

"What?"

"When he was stabbing you, Aaron. Did you scream or cry out?"

"No," Hotch responded. "There aren't that many people on the floor of my apartment building no one would have heard…"

"No, that's not what I mean," Blackwolf quickly interrupted. "You have trained yourself over the years to face the most horrific pain and suffering without making a sound, without saying anything out of place to the victims or your own team, that during the attack, you weren't able to cry out. Not surprising that even now, you still won't let yourself verbalize your pain."

Standing up, the Apache moved passed Hotchner, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder before he continued on to the over and began to dig out their dinner. They shared the meal in silence but it was less awkward this time. Hotch knew that he wasn't fooling Blackwolf, for that matter he'd known he wasn't fooling his team but with Blackwolf he didn't have to keep up the front for the sake of moral and team dynamics.

For the first time since he'd woken up in the hospital, Hotch felt the tight band around his chest start to loosen.

"What were you working on?" Hotch asked, later in the night when dinner was finished, the dishes washed, neatly tucked away and the two men had retreated to Blackwolf's living room.

"Student papers," the Apache responded, waving to where he'd moved the stack in beside his arm chair.

"Teaching," Hotch said with a small, fond smile. "Gideon did that for awhile, Rossi wrote books."

Glancing over at his friend, Blackwolf quirked a brow in Hotch's direction and pursed his lips.

"Knowledge and experience such as yours is valuable to the next generation in your field," narrowing his dark eyes, Blackwolf studied Hotch's face. "Do you feel it is time for you to teach?"

Fighting back a wince, Hotch shifted about on the couch and tried to find a comfortable position to rest. Not for the first time, he wondered at the wisdom of leaving the 'real' painkillers back in Washington but stubbornly refused to exhibit any discomfort.

"Haley would be happier if I did," he said. "That was the straw that broke our marriage, my giving up a desk job to go back out into the field."

Blackwolf pretended not to notice that despite Hotch's best efforts, his face was now an ashen gray and his lips were pinched so tightly that the Apache's grimaced in sympathy.

"You mentioned this before," Blackwolf pointed out, crossing his fingers and settling them across his still, trim enough –thank you!-, belly.

Hotch shrugged and went back to his shifting.

"If I'd stayed at the desk, I'd have my wife and my child. Instead, they're in hiding, stalked by a psychopath who wants nothing more than to destroy me by taking their innocent lives."

"True," Blackwolf agreed with that assessment because he could hardly refute it. "But who would you be?"

Giving up and sitting forward, arms resting along his thighs and back stiff to try and support his aching abdomen, Hotchner gave his friend a tired look.

"John, I swear I'm not up to Native American nuggets of undecipherable wisdom at the moment."

"Not up to Native American bullshit you mean?" John retorted but his smile was kind and he chuckled when Hotch had the grace to look sheepish before he nodded.

"Yeah."

"Well, too bad. I have not fulfilled my bullshit quota for the day."

"John…"

"Listen," Blackwolf's tone changed, meaning he genuinely wanted Hotch to pay attention that this wasn't about their bantering. "How many years have we known each other; five? Since the day we met you have always defined yourself by the job, measured yourself against your performance against the monsters you hunt. I tell you now as I told you back then, my friend, you could no more sit at a desk and continue to be Aaron Hotchner than you could grow wings and fly."

"I didn't even try, John!" Hotch said sharply and then he did wince as the pain shot across his torso. "I could have …"

"Given it longer, tried to settle into the work, focused more on Haley and Jack, cut yourself off from your team, Aaron, we have argued these points till the sun has long risen in both our time zones," sighing, Blackwolf stood up and moved over to sit back down next to his friend on the couch.

"I failed them, John," Hotch whispered, brushing the mused hair at his forehead back with his fingers.

"Aaron, no." Blackwolf's tone was firm. "The only person at fault in this is Foyet, a psychopath who needs to be stopped. You could have taken that desk job and a drunk driver could have hit their car and you would still be here, on my couch, trying to blame yourself for not being in the car, letting Haley drive, not being able to control the world."

Blackwolf put emphasis on those last few words and finally reached out to rest his large hand in between the agent's stiff shoulder blades. Hotch flinched, still not at complete ease with anything but the most fleeting of physical contact. Blackwolf paused, ready to remove his hand but slowly, Hotch worked his way through the initial discomfort and his shoulders relaxed.

Pleased, Blackwolf continued.

"None of us have so much control in our lives that we can foresee every step on the path laid out before us. We are men, who suffer the follies of men, who dance at the whim of the spirits and sometimes we must accept that we can only do our best. Aaron, can you look me in the face and tell me that you truly believe your best would have been at a desk?"

Hotch lowered his hand and turned to look into his friend's face. He wanted to spit out that of course he would have done his best at the desk job, as well as been the best husband and father possible. Two things he couldn't be while he was out in the field but even as he formed the words, they were erased in a flash, replaced by the faces of the victims who needed someone to fight for them, speak for them and bring their killer to justice. Equally, the words were replaced by the faces of the cases that ended up in the 'win' column because he and his team were damn good at the job.

Shaking his head, he looked back down at his tips of his shoes, drawing a small amount of comfort from the brush of Blackwolf's broad hand across his back.

"Stop taking on the responsibility of a madman, Aaron. You need to take your life back, not give up more of it to this Foyet."

"You know, John…" Hotch began, turning his head to glance at his friend.

"Too much like a fortune cookie?"

"Just a bit."

Blackwolf chuckled and drew his hand across his friend's shoulder and then moved to stand. He took no offense to the agent's words, comfortable enough with Hotchner to recognize when the man had reached a point where he needed to retreat behind carefully crafted walls of stoic deflection.

"You should go to bed," he said, walking back over to his chair. "I have papers to grade and a lesson plan to finish up. You know, actual work, unlike some people who come down to a man's house, eat his food, take over his bed and generally lay about…"

Hotchner gave Blackwolf a dismissive wave of his hand as he carefully levered himself up off the couch.

"Goodnight, Man-who-talks-for-sake-of-own-voice."

"Clever, just make that up, Captain America?"

"Came to me in a vision," Hotch gave his fingers a snap as he made his way towards the bedroom.

"Well, can't say I was entirely sure the mushrooms in that casserole weren't a bit dodgy," Blackwolf said, chuckling a moment later when he heard his bedroom door being firmly shut for the night.

Over the next couple of weeks, Hotchner slept more than he figured he'd slept in the past five years. He attributed part of it to depression but mostly, his body simply needed to heal and was telling him in no uncertain terms that it was taking a break and his mind could just cope. When he was awake, he forced himself to move about, getting out of the house and poking around the Reservation, sometimes even sitting in the classroom and listening to the lessons taught by Blackwolf or Jane Bear.

And of course, he bantered with Blackwolf. It was a combination of sharpening wits shaken by trauma and a familiar pattern of interaction that helped Hotch pull himself away from the alien isolation left in the wake of Foyet's attack. However, despite the way it lurked, just beneath the surface like a shark, the conversation from the first night wasn't mentioned again. Similarly, Blackwolf "slept" through Hotch's nightmares respectful of the fact that if it was particularly bad, Hotch would surface from the bedroom and "accidentally" bang the fridge door too hard waking Blackwolf up.

On those nights, they'd sit up with coffee and discuss the merits of profiling dirt, Native American history or occasionally debate the pros and cons of various current legislations involving Native American or Apache interest. They would talk about just about anything, except what had woken Hotch up, left him drenched in a cold sweat and seeking the light of the living room, the comfort of his friend's stalwart presence.

For about the first week, Hotch tried to call Washington but Garcia threatened his ties. It wasn't that Hotch was particularly concerned about the threats but it was easier to just humor her. Reid would jabber about everything but work, Prentiss diplomatically hung up on him, JJ sweetly disconnected him, Morgan transferred him to Rossi and Rossi told him to enjoy the countryside and hung up. Between Garcia's threats to his ties and Blackwolf idly wondering how many rocks it would take to make a crackberry 'crack' Hotch got the message and stopped trying to call the BAU.

Of course, this didn't keep him from checking in with the New Mexico field agency now and again; from a pay phone. He never asked about Foyet, simply checked in on what his team was doing, where they were, were they home safe.

The truth was, as the days passed and his body strengthened, his emotional state got worse. Without the dulling effects of physical pain and exhaustion, Hotch had more time to think about Haley and Jack out there, somewhere, targets for Foyet and Foyet himself who was now orchestrating Hotch's life. He'd never felt so completely out of control and for a control freak –yes, he was and he knew it- it was a singular living hell.

One afternoon, in the middle of the third week, Hotch found himself sitting on Blackwolf's porch, cleaning his service weapon for what was probably the twentieth time since he'd arrived in New Mexico. His concentration was disrupted when the sound of Blackwolf's truck careening up the driveway drew his attention. A large cloud of dust rose from the back wheels and the vehicle bounced as it was carelessly gunned up road, the whole picture screaming urgency and Hotch stood up, a worried expression on his face.

Stopping neat the house, Blackwolf rolled down the window and waved to Hotch.

"Come on; bring your creds and that hip weight of yours. There's something I need you to see."

Black eyebrows arching, Hotchner stood there, looking stupid for a moment.

"What?"

"Now, Captain America!"

The urgency in Blackwolf's tone spurred Hotch into motion and he ducked into the house, digging his creds out of his go bag and pulling on a fresh t-shirt. Scooping up his holster, he realized he didn't have a belt on and with an annoyed sigh he set it back down, set the safety and tucked the freshly cleaned weapon into the small of his back as he jogged to the truck.

"You know I'm not official in any capacity, right?" Hotch asked as he grabbed for the door when Blackwolf threw the truck in reverse and sped backwards down his driveway.

"I know that, you know that, let's keep it our little secret."

"John…"

"Listen, just don't flash your creds or shoot anybody, okay?"

"Then why did you have me bring them?"

"Just in case you forget my second point and shoot someone."

Hotch stamped down the urge to glare at his friend. He wasn't very successful.

"Where are we going?"

"Body dump."

"You're such a fun date," Hotch deadpanned.

"If you put out we can go to an autopsy later," Blackwolf teased. It was a fairly new component in their friendship but one that Hotch usually took up and fired right back at him. Blackwolf was curious as too how far Hotch would let it go this time.

"If I'm putting out there better be a good, hard interrogation in it for me."

"Into the rough stuff are you?"

"Okay this conversation is stopping, now."

Blackwolf nodded to himself. His friend was starting to get there. He'd deflected the conversation off earlier than he normally would but hadn't shut it down immediately.

For right now, Blackwolf would take that.

****

The body had been wrapped in a big tarp and left by the side of the road. Dust colored police cars, were parked in around the scene, creating a natural shield from any curious on lookers.

Not that there were many, this time even the lizards decided to vacate to quieter sunning grounds.

Though his gun was discreetly tucked into the back of his jeans, the hem of his shirt pulled neatly over the grip, Hotch felt strangely exposed. Not vulnerable per say but he was used to coming upon these scenes in full regalia, suit, tie, weapon on his hip and at his ankle, baton and cuffs tucked at the back of his belt.

With credentials that are barely worth more than the leather wallet they're carried in.

Aaron Hotchner owned crime scenes but today he was a spectator, little more than a glorified civilian and it chafed at a sense of professional duty that had been dormant since Foyet's attack.

Pushing down the disquiet, Hotch followed along behind Blackwolf as the shorter man made his way under the tape and towards the body. A quick scan of the gathered constabulary identified the Sheriff as the ranked officer on the scene.

There was no sign of a detective and in the regular course of things Hotch would politely but firmly take control of the scene, if he wasn't on a LOA from the Bureau and the creds in his pocket little more than a permit for him to carry a concealed weapon. It was hard, harder than he'd expected, not to walk up, start the profile and mostly take control of the integrity of scene; especially when Hotch noticed a young deputy touching the tarp with his bare hands.

Blackwolf, hearing his friend making a choked noise, turned and glanced back at Hotch with an expression of 'what'? Hotch bit back the words stuck in his throat and lifted his chin in the direction of the wayward deputy. Blackwolf glanced over and then back to Hotch, giving the FBI agent a shrug of 'rookies, what are you going to do?'

Not mollified in the least, Hotch lifted his eyebrows and looked pointedly at the Sheriff. Blackwolf sighed and held up a hand, indicating that Hotch needed to just calm down. Then he addressed the Sheriff.

"New SOP I wasn't aware of, Bill?"

"Hey there, John. Huh?" The Sheriff, Bill, looked confused for a moment till he glanced over and quickly gave the rookie a verbal ear boxing that lasted a good five minutes. "And when you're done satisfying your curiosity, Deputy Pieghts get down to the station and have yourself fingerprinted so we can tell yours' from the ones we really need."

The youngster looked shamefaced as he quickly moved toward a patrol car to start unrolling crime scene tape but Hotch felt no sympathy. If nothing else, Pieghts had just learned a lesson he'd hopefully never forget for the rest of his career. Turning his attention back to Blackwolf and Sheriff Bill, Hotch drifted closer to listen in on their conversation.

"Why am I here, Bill? This isn't my jurisdiction."

"I know, John. But we've got tracks heading towards the northern edge of the Reservation," the older police officer's eyes flicked to the tall figure of the FBI man standing just behind the Apache and after a brief pause, he reached out his hand. "Sheriff Bill Hulaski."

"SSA Aaron Hotchner," Hotch answered on auto pilot, taking the man's hand before he even realized what he'd said, his focus on the tarp and the body wrapped within. Even with his eyes shielded behind his sunglasses it wasn't hard to tell that Hotch was reviewing the scene with an experienced eye, making mental notes and probably already drawing conclusions.

"SSA? We haven't called in the FBI," Hulaski said, immediately suspicious and ready to defend his crime scene from the federal interloper.

"I'm not here officially," Hotch said quickly, forcing himself to look away from the scene and to the Sheriff's face, to reassure the Sheriff. "I'm here …"

Hotch trailed off and glanced at Blackwolf. Actually, he still wasn't sure why he was there, especially since it was going to ruffle local feathers for no purpose since nothing Hotch did at this point was official or admissible in any court of law.

"Need someone to drive my truck while I follow these tracks," Blackwolf said without missing a beat.

"Oh," Hulaski grunted, slightly mollified for the time being. "Well, let me know what you find at the end of the tracks."

Emphasis on the word 'tracks', unspoken emphasis on don't go sniffing around anything else, my crime scene, honestly Hotch was waiting for the day local law enforcement began to whip it out and piss on their 'territory'.

Blackwolf was giving Hulaski that beaming, 'I'm just a silly Injin' smile and waiting for the man to take himself off at which point he turned and looked at Hotch.

"I do need you to drive the truck."

"Uh huh?"

"And if you just happen to stare at the body while I get my bearings with these tracks, can't help that now can I? Professional hazard."

"Riiighht, and why am I staring at the body?"

"Because it's the third one they've found like this, just first time the tracks have lead back towards the Reservation."

"You realize this is a departmental political nightmare in the making, right? I'm on LOA, John and not supposed to be 'staring' at anything except my toes. Any evidence I might find, even if I just point it out isn't even going to get to the jury due to points one and two and a few other procedural…"

Hotch trailed off as Blackwolf waved an impatient hand at him.

"White man talk too much," he said in a cheeky manner, an attitude he dropped as he stepped up closer to the taller man. "Third murder like this in 6 weeks, two week span on murders. They're not ready to call in your team but I don't like the feel of where this is going."

Hands on his hips, Hotch looked out towards where the tracks Hulaski wanted them to follow were laid out and then back to Blackwolf. Giving the other man a small nod, he pushed his hands into his pockets and curled his shoulders, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible as he began to roam the edges of the crime scene.

Blackwolf stood and watched Hotch for a long moment. Though the tall agent was dressed in jeans, a t-shirt and was trying to project an air of 'don't mind me' Hotchner's bearing still screamed authority, competence and the keen intensity of a charismatic, natural born hunter. It was like a cloak that could not be shed or even stolen from Aaron Hotchner, despite the best efforts of a twisted man like Foyet. Blackwolf wondered if his friend understood this.

Shaking his head, the Apache glanced over at the local law just to verify that they were otherwise occupied and he began to pick his way carefully around the tarp, moving to the tracks. It took him barely a minute to get a clean read on the prints and the ATV tire treads might as well have been painted in neon they were so clear to Blackwolf's keen eyes but he hunkered down and made a show of his study, mostly to give Hotchner as much time as possible with the body in the tarp.

The first thing Hotch noticed about the body, besides the fact that it was male, was the manner of death was exsanguination due to knife wounds. The taste of bile, like battery acid, rose in his throat and he had to swallow a couple of times, fighting to get his heart rate back under control. Images of Foyet, naked to the waist, sitting on his groin and smiling as he slowly pushed the knife into Aaron's abdomen, assaulted the FBI agent and Hotchner almost fled back to Blackwolf's truck.

Stop it. Get a grip, you need to do this. Hotch mentally lashed himself without mercy, glad that his sunglasses hid the way he had to close his eyes.

One breath, two and third and then Hotchner forced his eyes open, looking back down at the dead man. Again the vision of Foyet jumped into Hotch's mental eye but he ruthlessly shoved it aside. If only he could do the same with the Reaper's taunting voice.

"Maybe this will change how you profile..."

No ... No! Hotch refused to let that happen and he clamped his teeth together, ignoring the dancing memories of the man who wanted to destroy his life. Taking a step closer to the tarp, Hotch forced himself to study every last cut on the body. He noted that the man was naked, dehumanized in the way his face had been slashed to ribbons. Quick, experienced eyes noted which wounds had bled and which appeared to have been delivered post mortem, when blood was no longer being pumped through the body by a beating heart.

Hitching his jeans, as if they were the pressed slacks of one of his suits, Hotch hunkered down close to the tarp. He did it without thinking, mind already starting to churn through the evidence he could see on and around the body, the profile of the killing taking shape as if of its own accord.

"Hey!"

The Sheriff's sharp yelp shook Hotch out of his thoughts and he looked up into the man's pinched, slightly red face.

"I'm sorry, Sheriff..." he began, moving to stand.

"Listen, I don't care who you are, if you're not on this crime scene by my invitation you are no better than a civilian bystander and we don't let them come gawking at the bodies either. So I suggest, SSA that you get over to that truck and get about your chauffer duties."

For the first time since Foyet's attack, Hotch felt his own not inconsiderable arrogance surge forward and he stared down into the Sheriff's face without blinking. Off duty or not, he was still an SSA, Unit Chief of the BAU and no one spoke to Aaron Hotchner like that in a professional capacity. Even Erin Strauss knew to mind her Ps and Qs, at least to Hotch's face, what she did behind his back was something else entirely.

Sheriff Hulaski shifted, nervously but kept his eyes on Hotch's face even if he couldn't look into those dark sunglasses. Still, he was resolute in his determination that this was his crime scene and he wasn't giving it over to a fed to take the credit.

Despite Hulaski's heroic show of determination or stupidity, Hotch knew in that moment that he could back the Sheriff down. He only had to continue staring at the man a few more breaths and Sheriff Bill would blink, look away, step back, give ground and there was a part of him that wanted to feel that power again. Wanted to reestablish the classic alpha dominance he felt he'd lost to Foyet.

And then, you would be little better than Foyet…

Hotch forced himself to now and then glance away, briefly.

"Of course, Sheriff. My mistake."

"Yeah, well ..." the Sheriff motioned towards the truck, his body language telling Hotch that the man was simply relieved the staring contest was over, though Hulaski wasn't sure if he'd won or just gotten damn lucky.

With another nod, Hotch began to walk back to the truck. He glanced over at Blackwolf, caught the Apache looking at him and then Blackwolf quickly looked away, attempting to seem innocent.

Hotch glared as he climbed into the driver's seat and deliberately pushed it back as far as it would go. It was a petty little exhibition but it made Hotch feel better about the fact that a sneaky Apache of his acquaintance was obviously up to something and though Hotch had profiled the body and each member of the local law, he could not figure out what trick Blackwolf had up his sleeve.

After another brief study of the ground, Blackwolf came back to the truck and hopped into the passenger seat.

"Pair of prints, juvenile male around 170lbs, juvenile female just over 100lbs."

"Two teenagers and a dead body? Doesn't sound like a serial killer to me, John."

"And they pay you for your profiling skills?"

Reaching to turn the truck over rather than answer, Hotch began to navigate the down along the edge of the tracks.

"Straight north, I think I know where the ATV went. I want to see where the girl was dropped off," Blackwolf said and he sounded tired.

Hotch cast a glance at his friend and began to carefully drive just off to the side of the tracks so he wouldn't contaminate them. Blackwolf rolled down the window and followed the tracks with his eyes, the dessert dust quickly dulling the rich black of his pony tail.

"You know who did this." Hotch didn't make it a question.

"I have suspicions," Blackwolf responded.

"There were a lot of shallow, hesitant wounds on the body. The killer didn't get really violent until after the man was dead," Hotch shared his own findings.

"Stop the truck," Blackwolf said and the FBI agent stood on the brakes bringing them to a quick halt.

Jumping out of the truck, the Apache immediately hunkered down to get a close look at the very delicate difference where the additional 100lbs had been removed from the ATV.

"This is where he dropped her off," Blackwolf said, not bothering to look over his shoulder, knowing Hotchner would already be there.

Scanning the immediate area, Hotch frowned.

"Seems pretty remote."

"That's why we call it the Deadlands."

Hotch ignored his friend's snark, recognizing it as Blackwolf's coping mechanism and after another study of the immediate area he picked his way carefully over the ATV tracks and walked towards a small tangle of coarse bushes.

"Got something," he called, standing over his find and looking to the west.

Blackwolf quickly crossed to where the agent stood and again he hunkered down on his heels.

"Hoofprints, Quarterhorse."

"If you say so, I'm more of a Mustang man myself."

"Getting back to nature would be good for you, you know."

"I rode a horse once, my legs didn't straighten out for a week and Haley declared the romantic ride on the beach was actually a romance killer."

Blackwolf chuckled.

"Little bruised were we?"

"And again, a conversation we're not having."

"Tell me something, Mr. Hotchner. Do you think that when the time comes you'll even notice you're undergoing a colonoscopy?"

"That's enough of that, you."

Blackwolf smirked and pointed to the west.

"She came and left from that direction. The horse was carrying more weight in than out."

"There wasn't enough blood at the dump site for it to have been the murder site. Did she bring him out here and then they ambushed him?"

"You asking me? You're the big, Fed profiler; I just stare at the dirt."

Hotch sighed and walked a few feet along the edge of the tracks, trying to build a mental picture of how things could have played out. Arms crossed, he wished Morgan or Rossi were there to walk through the scene with him, reenact the events. He knew he could ask Blackwolf to stand in but something in Hotch balked at that thought.

He didn't want to cross the lines of friend with his team. It was a definition he needed to maintain to do the work, to be the leader of his team, to bring them all home safe and as mentally and emotionally sound as the cases allowed.

"There would be signs of a struggle, if he'd still been alive. He was a big man, easily 280lbs, even with two of them, I can't imagine he'd just stand there and let them cut him up."

Like I lay there, letting Foyet drive the knife…

Shaking his head, Hotch shook off the unwanted vision that jumped into his mind's eye and he pressed his crossed arms a little more tightly against his chest.

The action was almost imperceptible but Blackwolf saw it and he stood up, taking up where Hotch had trailed off.

"So the weight difference, she had the body on the horse. Rode out here…"

"Met her accomplice on the ATV…"

"Or he went to get the ATV to meet her out here…"

"Why not just get the ATV and move the body that way? Why the horse then?"

Blackwolf thought about it for a moment and then nodded. Inwardly he smiled a little as the broken, quiet man he'd picked up at the airport was replaced by the consummate professional, that quick, intelligent mind focusing on the work, rather than collapsing in on itself and brooding.

"So, the boy was an accessory after the fact?"

Slowly, Hotch lowered his arms from their defensive cross over his chest and slid them down to his hips, his dark eyes scanning the scene.

"The shallow cuts, she wasn't sure at first. It wasn't until he was dead that her rage really took hold, that she felt safe enough to attack him."

"How'd she get close enough?"

At this point, Hotch had to shrug and shake his head.

"Without a chance to see the police report that will be hard to determine. Possibly a crime of opportunity, something happened to him and she took advantage. However, if there was a secondary injury, blow to the back of the head, it could have been a premeditated attack."

Glancing over at Blackwolf, Hotchner frowned.

"Either way, this killing doesn't seem like the work of a serial."

Blackwolf nodded but he continued to stand there, looking thoughtful.

Hotch knew his friend well enough that the Apache's stoic quiet practically screamed unease.

"What is it, John?" He asked, unconsciously using a tone he'd employed when trying to coax his agents to share their thoughts.

"The tarp, the nudity, where the body was dumped, all that is consistent with the other two murders," Blackwolf said, looking over at his friend and frowning.

"Could have read those details," Hotch pointed out with a shrug. "Small area like this, they could have heard talk?"

Blackwolf shook his head.

"True but the face mutilation, that's been kept away from the public, just the authorities know that detail."

Hotch pursed his lips and looked back out across the dessert. It was standard procedure that the authorities kept certain significant details of a murder out of any papers that could be accessed by the local population. It was a way to weed out people who wanted the attention of claiming to be the killer from the actual perpetrator.

For these copy cats to have known that detail…

The two men shared a grim glance and then Blackwolf turned and started back towards the truck.

"I'll call the Sheriff and tell him what we found out here. There's a ranch not far to the west of here, I imagine he can handle putting the immediate pieces together."

Frowning, Hotch trailed along, automatically heading for the driver's side door only to be shooed back to the passenger side by the impatient wave of his friend's hand.

"So you have any more details on the similarities between the first two killings?"

Fighting to get his seat back into the right position, Blackwolf looked over at Hotchner, a dark eyebrow lifting.

"Aren't you off duty, not official, on the shelf…"

"I'm just…" Hotch began and then trailed off with a shrug, looking out the window.

"An obsessive workaholic."

"Do they pay you for your profiling skills?"

"Sounded better when I said it," Blackwolf shot back, putting the truck in gear and driving away.

Blackwolf dropped Hotch off at his house threatening to kick him out of the moving truck when Hotch protested.

"I'll just ride with you to the station."

"And what?

"Be moral support?"

"Get out of my truck."

Now, left standing on the porch as he watched the truck head back down the road, Hotch tapped his long fingers against his hip bones, mulling over his thoughts.

Turning away from where the sun was starting to set, he headed into the house, back to the bedroom. Tugging his gun out of the small of his back, Hotch, secured the safety, tucked it into it's holster and then tucked it away in the drawer before reaching for his Blackberry.

Flipping the compact PDA over and over in his hand, Hotch contemplated what he was about to do. It was definitely not something he'd normally do, a fact that he couldn't quite decide was based on fallout from Foyet or why he was even considering this act. There were easily 100 things that could go wrong and those were just what he could list off the top of his head, if he gave himself another ten minutes he could probably come up with at least 200 more.

Putting his own phone down, Hotch stood up and walked into the main living area of the house, over to the kitchen where Blackwolf's landline phone hung on the wall. Feeling a twinge of shame for what he was about to do, Hotch picked up the phone and dialed a number he knew by heart.

"Hello?" On one hand Hotch was relieved that Garcia answered the phone without some inappropriate add on about being the goddess of tickling the keyboard, on the other he felt bad at the suspicious concern in her voice.

After all, he was using a direct line that was known only to a few people in the Bureau, yet the number would have come up as unknown to her.

"Garcia, it's me," he identified himself.

"Sir?! Are you all right?" She went from suspicious to outright concern in the blink of an eye and Hotchner cursed himself as he spoke quickly to reassure her.

"I'm fine, it's okay."

"Your phone?"

"I … wasn't sure you'd take a call from my number…"

There was a long pause and Hotch made a mental note to send flowers, lots of flowers.

"Sir…"

The hurt in Garcia's voice almost made him give up on his idea entirely and politely disconnect the call but, well he'd come this far.

"I'm sorry," he said, putting as much sincerity into his voice as he could manage. "But I need your help with something."

"Oh," there was another pause and Hotch smiled to himself as he could practically picture her bouncing back. Little kept Penelope Garcia down for long, even her Unit Chief's genuine attempts to keep her professional on the phone. "What do you need, Sir?"

"A file," Hotch hedged, still wrestling with himself on the wisdom of this.

"A…file?"

"A file on record with the Terra Mesa police department."

"A file … couldn't you just ask them for it?" Garcia said slowly but Hotch could tell she was already getting a clue.

"It's an active file," he confirmed what he expected was her suspicion.

"Sir," she began warningly, not because of the legality of what he was requesting but because he was supposed to be resting.

"Gar… Penelope," Hotch knew he was playing dirty, using her first name and rapidly that flower order doubled, a few balloons were added as well as a teddy bear or two. "There was a murder close to the Reservation, the least I can do for Blackwolf's hospitality is ensure that it's not going to ..."

"Sir," Garcia's tone was fond and firm. "You are really bad at asking for a little slap and tickle of a computer system."

Hotch rolled his eyes and rubbed his forehead with his palm.

"Garcia…"

"What's the case?"

"Two murders in the past 6 weeks, male victims, left naked on tarps out on the edge of the Deadlands, oh and if the autopsy report of a third murder victim found today…" Hotch was unconsciously putting on his puppy face, the one he used to get cleared early for duty when the medical staff wanted to keep him grounded for longer.

"I'll call you in a few."

"I owe you…"

"Oh you know it, my king!"

Hotch looked up at the ceiling, squashing the urge to point out that 'my king' was worse than 'honey' but as he was basically calling and asking her to break any number of procedures and rules, a couple carrying federal prison time.

"Thank you."

"Talk to you soon."

Hanging up the phone Hotch sat down and tried not to dwell on what he'd just done but he couldn't help wondering if he would ever have considered such a flagrant disregard for any number of rules before Foyet's attack. It was a question he decided he didn't want to think too closely on, not just now and he stood up and paced around Blackwolf's house, waiting for his phone to ring.

As luck would have it, Hotch was on the phone with Garcia, Blackwolf's laptop open on the kitchen table, busy downloading files when the owner of the laptop returned home.

Hearing Blackwolf's firm tread, Hotch straightened like a naughty school boy caught at dropping cherry bombs in the toilets and quickly rang off.

"Thank you, that'll be all," Hotch said sharply, hitting end on the phone and wincing as he wondered if he should just ship an entire Hallmark store to Garcia and call it done.

Blackwolf, meanwhile, was leaning in the doorway that separated his kitchen from the living room and his expression was knowingly expectant.

"What," Hotch said, hunching his shoulders and tugging the laptop a little to side, trying to hide what he was doing.

"Nothing," Blackwolf said casually, walking on into the kitchen and getting himself a glass which he filled with water. He then leaned on his sink and made a show of peering out the window.

Hotch glared over the top of the computer.

"John…" he began warningly.

"No, don't see any airborne porcine," the Apache mused before he turned and looked at Hotch, silently compelling his friend to drop the bullshit act.

"Listen, contrary to what you believe, I do not have a stick shoved up my…"

Blackwolf raised his hands.

"No need to be crude," he admonished and Hotch struggled with the urge to throw something at his friend. "But you are a stickler for the rules and I'm fairly certain that my computer screen, with my IP address by the way, is currently relaying off a case file you shouldn't have access to."

Hotch sat for a moment, trying to come up with a way to explain himself that didn't make it sound like he'd gone completely around the bend but in the end, he trotted out the wounded puppy expression and tried to look innocent.

"Garcia routed it across … well she told me but I forgot, basically they can't see your IP address," he offered.

Blackwolf couldn't stop the smile that split his face at his friend's expression; tt stripped years off Hotch's face. He wondered if the other man knew that but if Blackwolf could have one wish, it was that Hotch had more occasions to look so boyish.

"You're explaining yourself to the man who has a rap sheet?" Blackwolf pointed out, amused.

"Like I'm liable to forget having to bail you out on one notable occasion but there is a difference between peaceful protest misdemeanors and hacking the active file of law enforcement."

Blackwolf rolled his eyes and waved his hand, indicating they needed to keep the conversation moving along. Hotch smirked.

"Do you want to know what I found or not?"

"Do I want to be an accessory after the fact to the illegal accessing of local police files?"

Hotch thought about it for a moment and then arched his eyebrows. Blackwolf snorted and grabbed a chair, dragging it over to his friend's side and spinning it around to straddle it, muscular arms crossed over the back.

"Corrupt me, white man."

Hotch considered a quip but instead his fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up police reports and crime scene photography.

"The first body was found 20 miles east of our current victim, closer to the main road so while tire tracks belonging to a late model pick-up truck were found close to the body, they were lost as soon as the truck got back on the macadam."

"Macadam? Who the hell uses the term macadam anymore, it's call asphalt."

Blackwolf's interruption caused Hotch to double take in his direction. No one in his team would have ever interrupted a briefing to correct him. Blackwolf's dark eyes glanced sideways at Hotch, catching his gaze and a corner of the Apache's lips lifted.

I'm not your subordinate, Aaron. I'll talk to you as I see fit. The words were unspoken but clear as daybreak and Hotch had the grace to smile.

"Truck got back on the road, heading north."

"Back towards Terra Mesa."

"Yes but there are numerous turn offs, I don't think we can use that to conclusively put the killer in this exact area."

"Mmmm," Blackwolf began and he reached over to point at a notation on the scanned report. "This clay sample they took from the tread marks, it's local in this area, used to make pottery back when this was all Apache land."

Hotch pursed his lips and then made a note on the paper towel to his left. Blackwolf eyed the unconventional notepad and shook his head.

"Alright, so in these first two cases, you have the bodies dumped with truck tracks in the area, not ATV."

"What about, what's that word you're always waving around, victimology?"

For a few minutes there was only the sound of keys being depressed on the keyboard as Hotch flipped through the data dump Garcia had uploaded to him.

"White male, the first was late 40s, second early 50s and our recent vic just turned 50 last month. Not much on the first two, no credit cards, neither of them owned any land in the area, no rental records…"

"Sounds like transient ranch labor," Blackwolf supplied. "Single men, come through and work on the local ranch till they make enough money to head out. Usually coming from California down to Texas, they sometimes stop by the Reservation to offer labor if we need it."

Hotch tapped his lip with a fingertip thoughtfully.

"Men no one would miss."

"Pretty much, they're as likely to just drift off one night as to stick around and say goodbye, no one would think much about them suddenly being gone."

"But this third vic, Chuck Mayfield, complete autopsy pending."

"Local quarter horse breeder."

"Quarter horse hoofprints you said?"

"You really were listening," Blackwolf touched his heart as if he were shocked and amazed.

Hotch ignored him and went back to sorting through the files.

After awhile, Blackwolf sat back and rubbed his eyes. His friend was moving through the scanned documents, photographs and other data at a speed that he could not keep up with. Standing up, he went to refill his water and on a whim began to make a pot of coffee. Hotch didn't seem to notice his departure and Blackwolf risked surreptitiously observing the other man.

Hotchner was a man in his element dark eyes glued to the screen, quick mind plucking out tiny details as nuanced as the difference in the weight of a foot on the dessert floor. In some ways, it was fascinating to watch the fluid way the profiler picked up different pieces, fitted them together and let them lead him on to the next step in the puzzle.

Not long after his marriage had been official dissolved, Hotcher had traveled down to Georgia to attend one of Blackwolf's seminars. They had spent the weekend, matching wits, Hotchner challenging Blackwolf's topics not so much because he didn't believe the Apache's point of view but just for the sake of argument. It hadn't been until Sunday morning that his friend had allowed the conversation to stray over to his now ex wife and the failure he felt as a husband.

You are no failure, my friend, Blackwolf thought to himself, as he watched the keen skills of an experienced hunter, the fierce determination of a warrior take over the haunted, beaten expression of the man he'd picked up a few weeks ago. You are a strong man, who the spirits test mercilessly because they could not ask the same of your lessers.

"Something isn't adding up," Hotch said, breaking the silence for the first time in almost an hour.

"Yes because murder always makes sense," Blackwolf said, pouring out two cups of coffee and coming back to the table.

Hotch took the offered mug with a murmur of thanks as he sat back and tapped the edge of the cup with his fingers.

"There's more than one killer," he said, taking a sip and nearly choking. He took his coffee black but Blackwolf's coffee was enough to make a grown man want to add cream.

"We knew that," Blackwolf said, frowning.

"No," Hotch corrected. "We knew that the third victim was killed by someone other than the first two but the first two, were also killed by multiple assailants."

"Partner serial killers? I thought you said that was rare."

"Usually it's a very complicated dynamic, shared between a distinctly dominant and a distinctly submissive personality and normally these crimes are a lot more heinous."

Blackwolf genuinely bristled and sprang out of his chair, glaring at Hotchner.

"Murder of another human being is not heinous enough?" He snapped, both men sharply reminded that there were gulfs in their perceptions of the world around them.

Rather than taking offense or aggressively holding his ground as he would have in the past, Hotch lifted a hand.

"John, I'm sorry. That's not what I meant."

Blackwolf stood a little distanced from the agent, eying him uncertainly and then he shook his head, waving the incident off.

"We don't get many multiple murders around here I forget sometimes, what you're used to looking at."

Strangely, of all the things Blackwolf had ever said to him, that actually stopped Hotch in his tracks. Had he become so numb to the job that three murders, the loss of three human lives, were being weighed against the manner in which those lives were taken?

"I didn't need another crisis of conscience, John," Hotch said in a weary tone.

Blackwolf could only shrug, refusing to take back his words, yet genuinely unhappy that they weighed so heavily on his friend.

Shaking his head, Hotch sat back forward and continued.

"I'll reword," he said. "In a partner scenario usually there is a sadistic and or sexual component to the killings. Something about the way the victim is treated and killed satisfies the urges in both killers, that's why they work together. The thrill as a team is heightened beyond what they can accomplish individually."

"Fair enough," Blackwolf said, showing he was following, Hotch's reasoning.

"These first two killings, there is minimal trauma to the body. No sexual assault, no sign of torture, very little bruising at all. It's as if they were blitzed, killed, mutilated, stripped and then dumped."

Pausing, Hotch looked up at his friend, his expression looking for forgiveness for his next words.

"There is no component in those first two deaths to indicate the work of a killer who is seeking to gain some sort of satisfaction."

Blackwolf took a deep breath, shoulders straightening as he prepared to debate the definition of 'gain' with the FBI agent but Hotch quickly lifted his hand.

"Hear me out, John. Please?"

It was the 'please' that did it. Blackwolf blew out a deep breath and forced himself to rest his hip against his counter, he still couldn't help crossing his arms defensively but he tried to express that Hotch had his attention.

Nodding unspoken thanks, the profiler continued.

"You have to look at a serial killer not unlike a drug addict. Each kill is a thrill but the next one needs to be a little bit more. They become more proficient with their weapon of choice, they begin to add bits to the scenario to heighten the thrill, if they take trophies, they get better and better at extracting their trophy of choice, any number of things but as a rule, they evolve."

"Practice makes perfect," Blackwolf said, his expression one of distaste.

"In some cases but in this one, the first two killings are exactly the same. Transient men, murdered by exsanguination due to multiple stab wounds, faces mutilated with very little variation and then bodies dumped."

"Maybe someone has a problem against Transient work force," Blackwolf offered up. "In this economy, they come in and take jobs…"

"Possible," Hotch hedged, looking back at the screen. "But how does Chuck Mayfield fit into the equation?"

"What do you mean? You said he doesn't fit the profile of the others."

"Except his murder was made to look the same, up to an including the facial mutilations which were not public knowledge."

"Wait a minute," Blackwolf raised a hand. "You said there was no sadistic component to the killings."

"The mutilations were post mortem. Statistically speaking a sadist would want his victim alive to appreciate his work."

"'His' but a female brought the third body out into the dessert."

"Yes but I don't think she had anything to do with the first two murders."

Blackwolf ran his hand across his hair, giving his pony tail an irritated tug.

"Do they teach all Feds this sort of double talk?" He groused.

Hotch took a breath to launch into further explanation but before the words could come, he exhaled and leaned back, exhaustion having crept up on him when he wasn't looking.

"I don't think it's that cut and dried, John but I'm just not sure, not without talking to witnesses, suspects or hell even the Sheriff himself."

Blackwolf gave Hotch a look that said clearly just how soon he could expect any of those three things to happen and the profiler rubbed his hand over his face.

"Alright, taking a break," he said firmly, typing on the computer to save the files and then shutting it down. Hotch had at least learned over the years that sometimes you had to walk away from the case in order to see it better in the morning.

Blackwolf nodded and reached to scoop up the coffee cups.

"Wouldn't hurt you to get some sleep, you've been on your feet more today than you have in the past couple weeks."

"I'm fine," Hotch protested, ignoring his friend's snort and heading into the bedroom.

A shower and three hours later, Hotch lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling of Blackwolf's bedroom. The moon was full now and the light came in through the tall windows on either side of the bed, reflected off a mirror over the dresser and lit the room in a cold wash brilliance.

Just the act of lying on his back was a struggle these days which simply meant Hotch was that much more determined to force himself to do it. Still, he shifted restlessly, his mind awhirl with a mix of the triple murders and Foyet. It was starting to annoy the profiler as the more he worked to unwind the threads of the case, Foyet's face, his laughter kept getting in the way.

It was inexcusable, the way the Foyet was interfering with Hotchner's ability to work and the sense of duty, of responsibility that Aaron measured himself against bridled at being hampered by Foyet's machinations.

I need to take away his power over me, Hotch thought to himself, gritting his teeth as he thought back to what Blackwolf had said that first night, about how keeping it all in would make it impossible for Hotch to trust his own instincts or something to that effect.

Closing his eyes, Hotch took a long deep breath, trying to focus on the case facts but when Foyet, half naked and smiling atop him blew away his thoughts, the agent clenched his hands till his knuckles cracked.

"John, you asleep?" he called out towards the living room.

"Yes," the response was rough around the edges. "Fast asleep, dreaming a very nice dream."

Hotch's lips twitched and then he licked them, his fingers relaxing slightly up where they rested by his head.

"He showed me the scars, where he'd practiced on himself."

For a moment there was no response and Hotch tensed, wondering if Blackwolf was out there going back to sleep or worse, thinking up a question Hotch might not be ready to answer. The creak of a floorboard caught his attention and the profiler looked over towards the doorway, where the comforting muscular form of his friend was passing, entering the room on silent feet.

Blackwolf's hair was braided for sleep, the heavy length lying across his naked shoulder. Black pajama bottoms were wrinkled from sleeping on the couch, white socks stark against the cuffs. Hotch had asked about the socks, Blackwolf explained that his toes got cold. Hotch had later realized that Blackwolf's toes got cold because his feet hung off the couch, which was too short even for a man of Blackwolf's height.

He really did owe his friend a great debt.

The Apache sat down on the bed, back against the heavy post at the footboard, his eyes glittering darkly, reflecting the moonlight. Blackwolf didn't say anything, he simply sat there and eventually Hotch sat up, leaning back against the headboard a t-shirt covering his own scared torso.

"He was waiting for me, in my apartment when I got back from a case. He had a gun, had the drop on me, I expected him to shoot me," Hotch began, twisting the sheet in between his hands. "But that wasn't what he wanted."

The words were starting to come and despite the fierceness with which he guarded his privacy, Hotch felt them fall past his lips as if a dam had broken and he could no longer hold them back.

"He missed, deliberately and I charged him, but he must have been expecting that, ready for it and fast … he was so very fast. He pistol whipped me in the head, hard enough to daze me, incapacitate me but not knock me out. Had to have practiced that as well, it's not easy to do."

Hotch paused, thinking as hard as he could but unable to recall exactly what had happened after he'd taken the blow to the head. Given the nature of head wounds, he realized he probably never would.

"He was on me in the next moment, stabbing me the first time. I was on my back and he was straddling me, the knife in his hand, stabbing me again. I think it was then I remembered how he'd stabbed himself, to look like his own victim… "

He hadn't immediately felt the wound, not until Foyet had started to pull the knife back out but he knew a man as experienced with knives as Blackwolf probably knew that without being told.

"He stabbed me again but now he was talking about what it took to inflict multiple stab wounds on a victim without killing them, how he'd practiced and did I want to see the scars. He stood up, over me … why didn't I …"

Hotch choked on his own words, on the question that had haunted him since he'd woken up in the hospital. Why hadn't he fought back? Foyet had been off him, he should have attacked.

"I'm a trained, federal agent," Hotch said through teeth that suddenly clenched. "And I just lay there…"

When Blackwolf didn't interrupt him Hotch glanced towards his friend, braced to see disgust on his face. All he saw were signs of a very carefully control raged; a rage on his -Aaron's- behalf. More relieved then he would ever, ever admit Hotch shifted on the bed, turning to sit on the side rather than remain with pressure against his back.

On my back, Foyet standing over me…

"He walked over and turned on a light, and then took off his shirt, came back, showing me where he'd mutilated himself so long ago. Explaining how we'd soon share the same scars, then he knelt back down on me."

Hotch glanced over at Blackwolf.

"In profiling, we often reason that a perpetrator who uses a knife to penetrate the human body is compensating for a lack of sexual ability, that they gain sexual gratification from the stabbing act. Foyet taunted me with that, told me that he hoped our encounter would change the way I profiled. He told me to relax that it would be easier … and he stabbed me again, slowly … relishing every inch the knife pushed into my body."

Clenching his teeth, Hotch rubbed his hand along his left arm and looked off into a dark corner of the room.

"Things get muddled after that, I was losing too much blood, despite his best efforts to keep me, conscience and coherent but I remember one thing clearly … he was aroused."

Silence descended in the bedroom, Blackwolf surprised that Hotch's admission made a sick and twisted sort of sense in the context of his story.

"Aaron," he started but his friend violently shook his head.

"He didn't … touch me like that, they checked at the hospital."

"Aaron," Blackwolf said, interrupting more firmly. "Physically, maybe not but psychologically …"

Hotch felt the bile retch up into his throat and he swallowed back convulsively. He wanted Blackwolf to say it but knew his friend was waiting for him to spit the word out, leech away the power it had grabbed within his own mind.

Control, basic ownership of one's body, he took all of it …

"He raped me," Hotch whispered. "That's why I couldn't move, when he stood up…"

Blackwolf nodded slowly and finally picked up the conversation.

"He is a coward, Aaron, who wrested control from you in the most primitive, and brutal manner he could devise and it excited him, that power he stole but you are stronger than that," the Apache said fiercely.

Blackwolf wanted to reach over, to touch his friend but he figured Hotch would resist, if not fall into a flashback to that night so he fought to reach him with his voice.

"He had to ambush you, because he couldn't dare let you see him coming. He had to incapacitate you, because in a straight battle you would have broken him like a twig. He resorted to the most base and cowardly way to express power over another, because he could never stand on a level playing field with you and now, he stalks a woman and a child, because he still does not dare face you directly."

Sliding off the bed, Blackwolf hunkered down on his heels in front of Hotch, looking up into his face.

"Aaron, you've profiled yourself and told yourself that you failed, that you lost to this pathetic, twisted murderer. You're trying to tell yourself that he took from you, that he's made you less but the man who sat at my kitchen table tonight is not less. If you have been changed by his actions, that is a product of how life changes us but you have not been lessened."

"Is this where you tell me I shouldn't let him win?" Hotch asked in a tired voice.

Blackwolf snorted.

"No because you've already realized that yourself, your perspective is, as usual, a step behind your instincts."

Hotch felt the corners of his lips twitch.

"So what do I do, oh wise one?"

"You do your job," Blackwolf answered. "And when you find this Foyet you ensure that he doesn't steal anything more from you."

There was intensity in Blackwolf's gaze that told Hotch the man wasn't just talking about Haley and Jack but about Hotch's soul itself. Because Hotch knew, it would be all too easy to erase Foyet from the face of the Earth and damn the consequences or the rules of due process.

"John," he said, uncertain what he would do when the time came.

Blackwolf nodded and reached up to grip Hotch's hand.

"You do your best, Aaron. You do your best."

For a long minute, Hotch let himself be caught and held by eyes that had always seemed so much older than the weathered face around them, then he closed his fingers around Blackwolf's and nodded, grateful for his friend's unspoken faith in him.

Blackwolf, equally as caught in the study of friend's face, returned the nod and released Hotch's hand.

"Get some sleep," he suggested as he stood up and moved towards the bedroom door.

"John," Hotch called out but the other man turned and shook his head.

"Good night, my friend," he said firmly not needing to hear the other man's words of gratitude.

In the dark, Hotch half smiled and slowly laid back down, closing his eyes and for the first time he didn't immediately see Foyet's face.

John Blackwolf was a morning person, it came with his heritage and with his various jobs on the Reservation but even he wasn't prepared when Aaron Hotchner blew into the living room and reached down to shake him awake.

"You nailed it on the head," Hotch said as he strode on towards the kitchen.

"No, actually I was kissing her under a full moon," Blackwolf heard the words leave his lips before the images of his dream had faded.

"What?" Hotch asked, peering around the door frame with a perplexed look on his face.

"What?" Blackwolf parroted, peering over the back of the couch.

Shaking his head, Hotch waved a hand at Blackwolf.

"Put a shirt on and get in here."

Sitting up, Blackwolf looked out the window where the first shades of gray were all that brightened the sky and he shook his head. Wrapping his blanket around his chest, he padded into his kitchen.

"How is it your team hasn't murdered you?"

"I give them free access to a lot of coffee," Hotch replied, typing furiously on the computer.

Blackwolf grunted and headed for the coffee pot, pouring himself a mug from what was left from the night before and putting it in the microwave. Keeping his back to Hotch, Blackwolf fetched the mug out of the microwave and then turned around and leaned against the counter, holding the blanket around his shoulders to ward off the morning chill.

"Did you sleep?"

"A bit," Hotch answered, still typing vigorously.

"You couldn't have slept ohhh another hour?"

Hotchner gave Blackwolf a look over the top of the computer and then shook his head.

"I realized you had it right."

"Of course I did" Blackwolf responded airily as he took a sip of his coffee, having no clue what his friend was on about.

Hotch ignored him and pointed at the computer.

"Practice makes perfect, that's what you said."

A second sip of coffee had Blackwolf's brain starting to come on line and he tilted his head at his friend.

"Practice as in…"

"The first two murders, they were trial runs for the third."

Frowning Blackwolf moved to sit down across the table from Hotchner.

"But that third murder was, I guess you'd say sloppy, careless."

"Because I don't think it was supposed to happen."

Blackwolf glared at Hotchner, an unspoken promise to spill hot coffee on the man if he didn't stop talking in riddles.

"Not when it did," Hotch backed up. "I think Chuck Mayfield was the end target but these killers, they needed practice but something happened and Mayfield's murder was pushed up, maybe opportunity was presented and …"

"He was killed without the plan being in play."

"Or even completed, so they improvised, devolving so far as to result in the genuine target almost having nothing in common with the first two."

"So now what?"

Hotch tapped the tip of his pen against his note filled paper towel and frowned.

"I don't know," he said pensively.

"You realize the Sheriff does have a good idea of who two of these suspects are?"

"I know but you said the murders were happening every two weeks," Hotch said, dark eyes staring off into space.

"Right,"

"Mayfield wasn't meant to be the victim this time…"

"So there may be another," Blackwolf said, exhaling with a sense of defeat.

"He might not be dead yet," Hotch leaned forward, seeking to catch his friend's eyes. "A body hasn't shown up, we don't even know if they'd taken someone but if they have, they might not have killed him yet."

"How do we find out?" Blackwolf said sharply, the instincts of a natural law enforcer waking up at the idea of saving a life.

"I need to talk to the suspects."

Blackwolf leaned back, shaking his head.

"Aaron…"

"Alright, you need to talk to the suspects, it says here their names are Jim Colefield and Red Bear," Hotch's tone was distracted as he read down the file information on the computer screen.

"Aaron."

"They haven't been questioned by police yet, I wonder …"

"Aaron!"

"What?!"

"I'm not a profiler and besides, I'm not with local law enforcement. Neither of us is officially on this case."

Hotch waved off the profiler comment, Blackwolf was a natural. However, his second point was annoyingly valid.

Blackwolf eyed the agent askance.

"Aaron, as a lawyer, tell me what would happen if we walked into the Sheriff's office with this information, with your profile right now?"

"There are a few scenarios," Hotchner said, doodling with his pen.

"How many of them involve us doing federal prison time?"

"John, there could be a man out there…"

"But we don't know."

Hotch's lips compressed into a tight line and he stood up abruptly pacing about the small kitchen. For the first time, Blackwolf noted that the profiler had a belt on and his holster was clipped to his hip, Glock resting within.

"Aaron," Blackwolf spoke in a low tone. "You tell me and I will follow you anywhere, you know that but where?"

Hotchner didn't answer immediately. He moved to the computer, poking at the keys and then back along the kitchen, looking out the window.

"I wish Reid was here," he murmured. "Geographical profiling is his strong point."

"And you give me a hard time about profiling the dirt," Blackwolf muttered, hands resting between his powerful thighs.

Shaking his head, Hotch took off into the living room.

"Do you have a map?"

"A map?" Blackwolf said with a tone of disgust. "You're asking an Apache if he has a map of his own lands?"

Hotch's determined face poked around the doorframe and he shrugged.

"Well I can stick push pins in you, if you'd like to assume the role…"

Blackwolf just gave him a look and Hotch stepped back into the kitchen.

"Alright, no map, we'll make our own map."

Walking back over to the table, the agent sat down and tore another piece of paper towel off the roll he'd appropriated at some point.

"You've already identified the clay from the pick-up treads and we know the ATV tracks lead to the northern edge of the Reservation, while the body dumps have run east," as he spoke, Hotch sketched. "All indications point to Mayfield's body coming from his ranch to the west, down east as well."

"Nice triangle," Blackwolf remarked.

"Thanks but it doesn't mean anything," Hotch said tightly, looking at the computer and quickly scanning through notes and pictures. "Where do the majority of these transient ranch hands congregate?"

"Honestly, they mostly keep to the ranch they're working. The idea is to make money and get East, not spend it, another reason they aren't overly popular in the area," Blackwolf mused thoughtfully. "But there are a couple watering holes, cheap places they'll go."

"Okay, where would those places lay in relation to this triangle?"

Taking the paper towel, Blackwolf studied it for a moment, mentally putting in his own bearings before he reached and took Hotch's pen.

"Here and here," he made two distinct marks on the towel.

"Good," Hotch nodded thoughtfully. "What's the terrain like in those areas?"

Again, Blackwolf called up his internal mental map of the land and he began to use topographical notations to designate flatlands, forest and mountain.

Taking the towel back when the Apache was finished, Hotch studied it, his dark eyes burning with intensity as he listened to a little inner monologue that sounded remarkably like his youngest team member.

'Normally a suspect or suspects such as these would hunt within a specific comfort zone. With this much unpopulated area, they would have an almost unlimited resource of quiet spots where they could take their victims and … do the deed.'

Do you have anything helpful, Reid? We don't have much time?

'Well, looking at the pattern of the dump sites we can discount this southern watering hole with about a 97% probability that it's not where they picked up their first two victims.'

Because there is no evidence indicating that our unsubs came or returned to a point south.

'Exactly.'

So that leaves the one to the west.

'Correct, which you'll also note is closer to the mountain line, here rather than the forest further south and east.'

Hotch's lips twitched as he silently thanked the young genius and he circled the mark Blackwolf had made to the west.

"This one."

Blackwolf didn't even ask, he simply looked and nodded.

"Dusty Cowboy."

"What's this mountain range it's close to?"

"Mmm not so much a mountain range as a collection of natural caves on the side of hillocks."

"Caves, on National Park land?"

"Used to be Apache," there was the old bitterness in Blackwolf's tone and Hotch glanced at his friend, not unsympathetic but unable to offer any comfort for wounds that had been inflicted before either of them was born.

"They're also quiet, remote, close to a good hunting ground and also within a workable range for the Mayfield ranch if my calculations are correct, perfect place for these killers to take their victims."

Blackwolf whistled.

"There are well over a hundred caves, Aaron."

"Good thing I'm sitting next to the best tracker in the southwest."

"Good thing."

Blackwolf offered to take the short cuts up to the caves but despite the time crunch, Hotch insisted they drive to the Dusty Cowboy first.

"Time is a factor in where they are taking these men. Perhaps we can narrow down our search area by starting with the caves that offer them privacy but also fairly swift access to and from the road."

Blackwolf wasn't sure he agreed with the wasting of time, not when a man's life could be at stake but Aaron was adamant, demanding in a way he hadn't been before now, so to the Dusty Cowboy they went. Pausing long enough for Hotch to glance at his watch, they drove on to the closest road that fed up into the cave network.

"You honestly think they're just using the first road they come to, Aaron?" Blackwolf said, not bothering to hide the fact that he wasn't convinced.

"There is a classic blitz pattern to these first two profiles. Disorganized."

"Wait, you said they were practicing to be perfect at this."

"I didn't say they knew what to practice, John."

"And they call some of my method's fanciful."

Hotch didn't bother responding, his eyes already scanning the area as he used his own profile and put himself into the unsubs' shoes.

Where would I go from here...

Lost in his thoughts, Hotch jerked against his seatbelt when Blackwolf brought the truck to a sudden halt.

"What?" He said, more sharply than he intended which earned him a dirty look from the Apache.

"You can sit there and try to get into their minds if you wish but I see tracks."

"You do?" Hotch looked out of the dust covered window and frowned. "Where?"

"I despair for your perception," the Apache groused as he got out of the truck and walked around the front.

Shaking his head, Hotch secured the Glock at his hip and slid out of the truck to join his friend.

Blackwolf didn't say a word, his eyes fixed on something at the edge of road. Hunkering down briefly to study it, he stood and motioned for Hotch to follow him as he began to move with long strides up the road. For ten minutes they walked before Blackwolf stopped and lifted his arm to keep Hotch from saying anything. Turning to look over his shoulder at the agent, he raised a finger and then pointed it ahead of them.

Slowly but with uncanny stealth, Blackwolf moved forward, Hotch following as they crept around a right hand turn off the road and up into the deeper dust of the cave side. Now Hotch could see it more clearly, tire tracks and his not inconsiderable memory was fairly certain these were the same tracks from the police file.

The late model pick-up came into view only once they had crept up a ridge that made a natural barrier to the cave's mouth.

Blackwolf immediately stretched out on his belly, seamlessly becoming one with the ground. Hotch briefly admired the way his friend made it seem so easy, it had taken Hotch himself years in SWAT to achieve anything nearly so graceful.

"Chances of a late model pick-up just lurking around being a coincidence?" Blackwolf whispered.

"There is probably an exact percentage but on a guess I'd say small."

"Mmm," Blackwolf agreed with a noncommittal noise and glanced over at his friend.

Hotch was wrestling with himself. There was no question, he should call in to the Sheriff and tip the police off to this location. It was as simple as that but the time it could take for the locals to mobilize and find their way out here chafed against the urgency Hotch felt creeping up along his spine.

It wasn't completely inexplicable that he and Blackwolf could have just been exploring. Happened upon the situation, made a citizens' arrest. It would hold up in court ... probably.

A life verses the rules. Where was Morgan when he needed him. The handsome man would have taken the choice out of Hotch's hands by charging in, damn the consequences.

Setting his lips, Hotch moved from the belly flop to a crouch and started over the edge of the rise.

Blackwolf's eyes widened when he realized the man was going in and he almost got left behind from the sheer shock of seeing Aaron Hotchner deliberately breaking set procedure. Shaking off a sense of pride mixed with a hint of disquiet, he got up and quietly followed.

The two men quickly traversed the open area between the ridge and the back of the pick-up, carefully using it as cover. Hotch craned his head around the sides of the truck, trying to get a read on the cave but even in the morning light, the mouth gave up little information.

Without needing to be told, Blackwolf leaned up close to Hotch's ear and whispered.

"These caves can run pretty deep and some of them connect to others but those are further down in the network. Caves in this area are usually chosen because they're high and fairly open."

"For a cave?"

"You might not hit your head."

Hotch nodded and without thinking, he reached for his gun. Blackwolf's fingers were like iron where they closed over his wrist.

"Aaron," he said sharply, holding his friend's sharp glance when Hotch glared at him.

The flash of anger Hotch felt at Blackwolf taking such a liberty quickly passed as he realized the man was looking out for him. He could go in there, gun drawn, he could even fire the weapon if given reason and it could all be on video tape and he'd still have opened himself up to any verity of legal and civil issues.

Not just himself but the BAU as well.

Taking his hand off his gun, Hotch nodded and began to inch around the pick-up.

Blackwolf made sure he could quickly access the knife he carried and moved along behind the taller man.

At the mouth of the cave they took up flanking positions on each side and Hotch motioned that he was going to go in and Blackwolf should cover him. Blackwolf touched the knife at his side and motioned that he should take the point. Hotch made a motion of talking and down and pointed to himself, then motioned that if his attempt to talk to the unsubs -if they were in there- failed, Blackwolf would be in a position to cover his flank. Blackwolf gave him an expression that translated fairly clearly into just what he thought of Hotch's mental state but the taller man was already on the move.

About five steps into the cave, it dawned on Hotch that a gun wasn't the only thing he usually had on his person when out in the field. There was also his baton, cuffs ... a flashlight. Setting his hand to the side of the cave wall to help maintain his bearing, the federal agent moved was deliberate care and tried not to think of bats.

Gideon would have said -probably had during one night of drinking- that sometimes a little bit of luck was worth all the skill and experience in the world. It seemed that today a bit of luck was with them, as the darkness of the cave's entrance slowly began to give way to artificial lightly towards the back.

Hotch slowed, keeping as close as he could to the shadows as voices started to echo towards him, as if following the light.

"We can't keep him here forever, Jim ... we've got to."

"Shut up, Red! I'm thinking here."

"Jim..."

"We should kill him."

"What? There's no reason to."

"But he'll talk."

"So what? We're already screwed..."

Hotch felt a sense of relief at the confirmation that the intended third victim was still alive but it was short lived as he quickly profiled the desperation in the two tones.

Give me an organized killer over the desperate ones any time. At least it's easier to predict the organized killer.

Tugging his gun and holster off his hip, Hotch tucked them into the back of his pants and glanced over at the shadows across the way. He couldn't see Blackwolf, the Apache was too good for that but he knew the man was there and would have his back. Taking a deep breath, Hotch moved away from the wall and into the center of the cave, deliberately kicking rocks.

"Hey, anybody back here?" He called out in as cheerful a voice as he could manage.

"What?!"

"Who are you?!?"

Hotch moved into the light, hands held up, trying to exhibit that he was no threat, just a guy out taking a walk. His eyes quickly took in the crudely modified dog crate they were using to keep the a man in about his 50s confined. There was blood off in a corner, obviously the kill zone and then the two youths themselves, no older than 17, one white the other Native American.

Neither of them appeared to have a gun but both young men carried hunting knives on their belts and Hotch swallowed back the bile that jumped into his mouth.

"Whoa, easy," he said, trying on a smile. "I was just walking by and saw your truck..."

The two shared an unease glance but they might as well have shouted between themselves as far as the profiler was concerned. They couldn't even agree on killing the man in the cage and now, here was another unexpected wrinkle, another man they might have to kill.

"Okay," Hotch said in a softer tone. "I was looking for your truck; a lot of people are looking for your truck. It's going to go a lot easier on both of you, if you let this man go and turn yourselves in."

The Native American boy shifted and Hotch could tell that what he was saying wasn't falling on entirely deaf ears. The other boy, Jim, looked uncertain but also resolute.

"You don't understand," he said. "He had it coming to him."

Taking his attention off RedBear, confident that Blackwolf had the teen under his watchful eye, Hotch put his full focus on Jim.

"He?" Hotch knew the young man meant Mayfield but he looked at the man, cowering in the cage. "What did this man do?"

This man. A deliberate look, trying to make Jim see the man in the cage as a person, separate from and so not a substitute for Mayfield.

"Mayfield," Jim spat. "He did things, horrible things. He deserved to die."

"But this isn't Chuck Mayfield," Hotch insisted, gently but firmly. "Chuck Mayfield is dead."

"And he deserved it!" Jim insisted strenuously and he took a quick step back towards the cage.

Hotch moved forward, attempting to angle himself, for a chance to get between the agitated young man and the cage.

"That's not for me to argue with you," Hotch said in a neutral tone. "Listen, let's just calm down, and go down to the polic…"

Jim made an incoherent noise and wheeled on Hotch, drawing his knife and brandishing it at the profiler.

"No!" He bellowed, eyes wild. "We went to them, we went to them three times and they never, never did anything."

Light from the lanterns in the cave flashed off the blade and Hotch felt himself freeze, attention caught by the sight of the naked blade, waving in his direction.

Foyet, turned the knife back and forth close to his face, so close he could smell his own blood on the metal…

Hotch felt his breathing quicken as the memories raced up and down his spine, goose bumps lifting on his skin and his ears filled with the sound of rushing blood. Suddenly, before he was cognizant of moving, Hotch felt his body, explode into fluid motion as kinetic memory overrode his conscious mind.

It was over before Hotch even thought it through. His left hand flashed up and outwards, knocking Jim's arm aside even as the agent's strong fingers closed around the youth's wrist. Two steps, as graceful as a dance, pulling Jim in to him and then around until Hotch had the teen's arm twisted behind his back, Jim's hand pushed up towards his shoulder-blades.

The young man yelped and immediately dropped the knife as Hotch secured the youth's other arm at his side and kicked the weapon away.

Standing there, Jim held securely, Hotch slowly became conscious of breathing, conscious of his surroundings, of where Blackwolf stood next to the other young teen, hand on Red Bear's shoulder. Glancing at his friend, Hotch wondered if he looked as pale in the face as he felt; sweat breaking out across his whole body as he came down off the adrenaline kick.

From his position off to the side, next to the other teen –who had readily given up his own knife when Blackwolf had appeared behind him- the Apache studied his friend. Hotch was gray in the face, breathing heavily and Blackwolf could see sweat breaking out at the other man's temples but the profiler's dark eyes glittered, intense with the slow realization of what he'd just seen and done.

"At least you didn't shoot anyone this time," Blackwolf said, deliberately injecting normalcy into the situation before Hotch's thoughts could spiral into the gravity of what had just happened.

There was a tense moment but when Blackwolf saw Hotch roll his eyes, he released a breath he hadn't been aware of holding and smiled to himself.

Hotch had certainly had warmer welcomes at police stations.

Of course, he'd also had more hostile as well.

To give Sheriff Hulaski his due, while the man was obviously displeased at having been end run and well aware that Blackwolf and Hotch's story about just 'being in the area' was total bullpucky, he also seemed genuinely grateful that a man's life had been saved. Handing Jim Colefield and RedBear over to the deputies, Hotch and Blackwolf stood off to the side, Hotch with his arms crossed.

"Smoke is coming out of your ears," the Apache deadpanned, without bothering to look at his friend.

"Hmm?" Hotch responded in a distracted tone, his eyes on a young brunette who was sitting off to the side, rubbing her hands together. She was close to the same age as Jim Colefield and RedBear, little over 100lbs, maybe and sporting a spectacular bruise across the high line of her cheekbone.

Blackwolf traced his friend's line of sight.

"Mayfield's niece," he supplied, tone a study in neutrality.

Hotch shared a glance with Blackwolf and after a long moment, he pushed away from the wall he'd been lurking against and made his way over to where the girl was sitting.

"Mind if I sit?" Hotch asked in a soft voice, motioning to the hard plastic chair next to the girl.

"Don't care," she murmured, not so much sullen as withdrawn and uncertain.

Slowly lowering himself down, Hotch noticed the way she flinched away from his large form, turning her body slightly so her chest and stomach were shielded from him. Moving carefully, Hotch leaned forward and laced his hands together, trying to seem as unthreatening as possible.

"My name's Aaron," he supplied and waited patiently as she struggled between ignoring him and being police.

"Penny."

"Penny, that's pretty, is it short for something?"

"Penelope."

"Really, I have a friend named Penelope."

"I hate it," she said, rubbing her hands together. "It's why I go by Penny."

"Fair enough," Hotch said easily. "I'm sorry about your uncle."

Penny's head whipped towards him sharply and despite the way her long hair covered half her face, Hotch could see her warring between blurting out the truth and giving him the practiced lie.

"Yeah," she finally settled on something noncommittal.

"You must be glad that those two young men have been caught."

This time, Penny looked away, using her hair as a curtain to shield her face completely. After a moment, thin shoulder's shrugged.

"I guess," she whispered, hands still scrubbing together.

Hotch studied her thoughtfully, taking in her body language, the bruise, the way she curled against herself, her hands. He thought he saw a slice of red across her palm, where a splinter might have embedded itself and was risking infection.

"You didn't want the person responsible for your uncle's death caught?" He baited her as gently as possible.

This time, Penny wheeled her head around and looked at him full face on. Her pretty green eyes were red rimmed from what was probably days of crying, her face marked with bruises but there was no mistaking the anger, the rage that flashed in her expression before she quickly looked away.

"Why do you care," she said, tone bitter. "No one has before."

It would be so easy, Hotch thought to himself. She wanted to talk, hell she wanted to scream from the rooftops and he was willing to bet everything needed to back up her story could be found on the horse ranch. It would just take a couple more carefully placed questions and she would confess.

He could picture it in his head, as clearly as if he were watching a movie. Her posture, her fear of his size, the bruises both fresh and old, Mayfield had been abusing her and if what Jim had said, the abuse had been going on for awhile. Three teens, gradually learning how wrong what Mayfield was doing was, going to the police but no one being able to follow up on it, Penny slipped through the cracks.

Jim and Redbear cooking up what seemed like a scheme that wouldn't hurt anyone, after all the transient workers weren't even liked in the area, who would care if a couple ended up dead. Just a few, to practice how to kill them, the slashing of the faces, rage at Mayfield. They almost had it worked out but then one night Mayfield attacked Penny only this time, bolstered by the promise of freedom to come, Penny fought back. Got the upper hand and it spiraled out of control.

Afterwards, panicked she called Red Bear, knowing Colefield, her boyfriend, would freak … she and Red Bear got rid of Mayfield's body but it was sloppy and everything began to unravel from there.

Studying her scared yet defiant face, Hotch gave a small nod and stood back up, walking over to Blackwolf.

The Apache arched an eyebrow, glancing from his friend to the girl and back.

"Get anything from her?"

Hotch shrugged and pushed his hands into his pockets.

"Anything she said to me would be inadmissible, hearsay."

"But she did it, didn't she. She killed Mayfield."

Pursing his lips, Hotch nodded.

"Yes," he said simply and with conviction.

"I heard someone say that Jim Colefield is confessing to the Mayfield murder. Mentioned it's erie how calm he is compared to when we first brought him in here," Blackwolf said in a low tone.

"He saw Penny here; he's protecting her," Hotch answered, hands on his hips. "As he's been trying to do for a long time I imagine."

"Around here, probably since childhood."

Hotch nodded and looked down at the dust that covered his dark shoes, thoughtfully he scrapped at his instep with the side of one shoe and then straightened.

"Guess we're free to go?"

"Gave our statements," Blackwolf agreed but he was watching Aaron pensively.

"Right," the taller man turned and began to head for the door, stopping when his friend grabbed his arm.

"Aaron," Blackwolf whispered, black eyes searching the other man's face.

"What?" Hotchner responded, an edge of are you going to question me in his tone.

"Shouldn't you tell Hulaski, what you suspect?" Damn straight I'm going to question you.

Hotch stood stiffly under Blackwolf's hand, studying his friend's earnest face. Glancing over to Penny, images jumped through his mind's eye, starting with Megan Kane and going all the way through to Reid's earnest expression when they dealt with Owen Savage. Hotch looked inside himself and he couldn't help but wonder what he would do when Foyet was in his grasp.

How do you cope when the system fails you?

Looking back to Blackwolf, Hotch deliberately but not unkindly, tugged his arm away.

"Hulaski's not likely to be interested," he said simply and with one last glance at Penny, he walked away towards the exit.

Left in Hotch's wake, Blackwolf stood there with his hand extended. Exhaling a long breath, he lowered it, setting them both on his hips as he glanced towards Penny and then back to Hotch's retreating back.

Looking around the bullpen, Blackwolf spied the young deputy from the crime scene and he chewed on the inside of his lip for a moment before walking over to the youngster.

"Hey, Deputy Pieghts, right?"

Glancing up, the young officer quickly came respectfully to his feet.

"Mr. Blackwolf, Sir."

"Relax before you trip over your chair," Blackwolf advised with a wave of his hand.

Pieghts glanced cautiously around just to make sure this wasn't a trick but then he started to breath again.

"Don't mean to take up too much of your time but I have a tip for you. See that girl over there," he motioned with his chin towards Penny. "I think you ought to sit down and try talking with her."

"Penny Mayfield?" Pieghts said in a bemused tone.

"Yup," Blackwolf said as he turned to walk away. "Listen also, she might tell you a fascinating story that you can share with the Sheriff."

Blackwolf could feel Pieghts' confused glance on his back but it wasn't until he was at the door that he glanced over his shoulder. The young officer was standing next to Penny Mayfield, holding out a can of cola.

Smiling, Blackwolf cleared the doorway and headed for his truck, where Hotchner sat, waiting.

****

"American Airline, Flight 344 to Washington Dulles will be boarding within the hour."

Hotch had already checked his suit case and stood with his carry on bag at the edge of security. He wore neatly pressed slacks, a button down shirt and a sports coat, Blackwolf had rolled his eyes at him that morning and muttered something about sticks in uncomfortable places.

Now, the two friends stood, looking at each other.

"So, is this where you give me some words of wisdom for the road?" Hotch said but the corners of his mouth were touched with an affectionate smile.

"And waste my breath?" Blackwolf returned thought a larger, fond smile split his own face. "I'm just glad to get my bed back."

Hotch rolled his eyes and leaned down for his carry on and slung it up over his shoulder.

"Any idea when you're going to be out East again?"

"I have a seminar in North Carolina at the end of the year."

"Planning to get arrested at this one?"

Blackwolf shrugged carelessly.

"There are plans to develop some land off the coast that belongs to the local tribe…"

"I'll keep my go bag handy," Hotch said dryly.

Blackwolf smirked and glanced up as there was another call about Hotch's flight. This time, he reached out his hand to his friend.

"Take care of yourself, Aaron."

Hotch clasped Blackwolf's arm at the wrist, leaning their arms together for a long beat before he released him.

"Be well, John."

Hotch turned to walk towards security but after a couple of steps, he paused and looked quickly over his shoulder frowning.

"John…" he began but the Apache shook his head.

"Don't, Aaron. It's unlikely but if he does set foot on the Reservation, I'll call you when it's over."

Lips pressed into a tight line, Hotch wanted to believe his friend, wanted to believe that Foyet wouldn't take a run at Blackwolf, that Foyet wouldn't call him one night, gloating over having done things to the Apache. But Blackwolf was right, it was unlikely. Haley and Jack, possibly Sean were Foyet's likely targets and they were the ones Hotch needed to focus on.

Nodding, he gave the Apache a light wave and continued on to the security gate. Setting his bag up on the conveyor belt, Hotch reached to the inner pocket of his sports jacket and pulled out his credentials. Head up, he met the glances of the two security officers working the terminal as he flashed his ID.

"Good morning, I'm Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner with the FBI. I'm declaring a Glock 17 that is secured on my hip."

He flicked his coat enough to expose the weapon but that was the only concession he made. The guards glanced from his credentials to his face and back and in brief order, he was being escorted through security and on into the terminal.

No fuss and certainly no demand that he explain himself.

Off to the side, Blackwolf watched and smiled to himself.

"You get em, Captain America."